J 

University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


v  IS,  J)yei?..<* 


6- 


ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 


ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 


BY 

W.   D.   HOWELLS. 

AUTHOR  OF    "VENETIAN  LIFE, 


NEW   YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY   HURD   AND    HOUGHTON, 

459  BECOME  STREET. 

1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

WILLIAM  D.  Ho  WELLS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED    AND    PRINTED    BY 
H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  ROAD  TO  ROME  FROM  VENICE  : 

I.  LEAVING  VENICE .  9 

II.  FROM  PADUA  TO  FERRARA 10 

III.  THE  PICTURESQUE,  THE  IMPROBABLE,  AND  THE  PATHETIC 

IN  FERRARA 14 

IV.  THROUGH  BOLOGNA  TO  GENOA 43 

V.   UP  AND  DOWN  GENOA 52 

VI.  BY  SEA  FROM  GENOA  TO  NAPLES 65 

VII.  CERTAIN  THINGS  IN  NAPLES 75 

VIII.  A  DAY  IN  POMPEII  ........  89 

IX.  A  HALF-HOUR  AT  HERCULANEUM  ....  106 

X.  CAPRI  AND  CAPRIOTES 116 

XI.  THE  PROTESTANT  RAGGED  SCHOOLS  AT  NAPLES  .  .  136 

XII.  BETWEEN  ROME  AND  NAPLES 147 

XIII.  ROMAN  PEARLS 151 

FORZA  MAGGIORE 178 

AT  PADUA 196 

A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  PETRARCH'S  HOUSE  AT  ARQUA  .       .        .216 

A  VISIT  TO  THE  CIMBRI 235 

MINOR  TRAVELS  : 

I.  PISA ....  251 

II.  THE  FERRARA  ROAD 259 

III.  TRIESTE 264 

IV.  BASSANO ...  274 

V.  POSSAGNO,  CANOVA'S  BIRTHPLACE 280 

VI.  COMO ...  285 

STOPPING  AT  VICENZA,  VERONA,  AND  PARMA   .       .       .       .293 


THE  ROAD  TO  ROME  FROM  VENICE. 
.1. 

LEAVING    VENICE. 

WE  did  not  know,  when  we  started  from  home  in 
Venice,  on  the  8th  of  November,  1864,  that  we  had 
taken  the  longest  road  to  Rome.  We  thought  that 
of  all  the  proverbial  paths  to  the  Eternal  City  that 
leading  to  Padua,  and  thence  through  Ferrara  and 
Bologna  to  Florence,  and  so  down  the  sea-shore  from 
Leghorn  to  Civita  Vecchia,  was  the  best,  the  briefest, 
and  the  cheapest.  Who  could  have  dreamed  that 
this  path,  so  wisely  and  carefully  chosen,  would  lead 
us  to  Genoa,  conduct  us  on  shipboard,  toss  us  four 
dizzy  days  and  nights,  and  set  us  down,  void,  bat- 
tered, and  bewildered,  in  Naples  ?  Luckily, 

"  The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade," 

for  there  are  events  of  this  journey  (now  happily  at 
an  end)  which,  if  I  recounted  them  with  unsparing 
sincerity,  would  forever  deter  the  reader  from  taking 
any  road  to  Rome. 

Though,  indeed,  what  is  Rome,  after  all,  when 
you  come  to  it  ? 


n. 

FROM    PADUA    TO    FERRARA. 

As  far  as  to  Ferrara  there  was  no  sign  of  devia- 
tion from  the  direct  line  in  our  road,  and  the  com- 
pany was  well  enough.  We  had  a  Swiss  family  in 
the  car  with  us  to  Padua,  and  they  told  us  how  they 
were  going  home  to  their  mountains  from  Russia, 
where  they  had  spent  nineteen  years  of  their  lives. 
They  were  mother  and  father  and  only  daughter, 
and  the  last,  without  ever  having  seen  her  ancestral 
country,  was  so  Swiss  in  her  yet  childish  beauty, 
that  she  filled  the  morning  twilight  with  vague  im- 
ages of  glacial  height,  blue  lake,  snug  chalet,  and 
whatever  else  of  picturesque  there  is  in  paint  and 
print  about  Switzerland.  Of  course,  as  the  light 
grew  brighter  these  images  melted  away,  and  left 
only  a  little  frost  upon  the  window-pane. 

The  mother  was  restively  anxious  at  nearing  her 
country,  and  told  us  every  thing  of  its  loveliness  and 
happiness.  Nineteen  years  of  absence  had  not  robbed 
it  of  the  poorest  charm,  and  I  hope  that  seeing  it 
again  took  nothing  from  it.  We  said  how  glad  we 
should  be  if  we  were  as  near  America  as  she  was  to 
Switzerland.  "America!"  she  screamed;  "you 
come  from  America  !  Dear  God,  the  world  is  wide 


FROM   PADUA   TO   PERRAEA.  11 

—  the  world  is  wide  !  "  The  thought  was  so  paralyz- 
ing that  it  silenced  the  fat  little  lady  for  a  moment, 
and  gave  her  husband  time  to  express  his  sympathy 
with  us  in  our  war,  which  he  understood  perfectly 
well.  He  trusted  that  the  revolution  to  perpetuate 
slavery  must  fail,  and  he  hoped  that  the  war  would 
soon  end,  for  it  made  cotton  very  dear. 

Europe  is  material :  I  doubt  if,  after  Victor  Hugo 
and  Garibaldi,  there  were  many  upon  that  continent 
whose  enthusiasm  for  American  unity  (which  is  Eu- 
ropean freedom)  was  not  somewhat  chilled  by  the  ex- 
pensiveness  of  cotton.  The  fabrics  were  all  doubled 
in  price,  and  every  man  in  Europe  paid  tribute  in 
hard  money  to  the  devotion  with  which  we  prose- 
cuted the  war.  and,  incidentally,  interrupted  the  cul- 
tivation of  cotton. 

We  shook  hands  with  our  friends,  and  dismounted 
at  Padua,  where  we  were  to  take  the  diligence  for 
the  Po.  In  the  diligence  their  loss  was  more  than 
made  good  by  the  company  of  the  only  honest  man 
in  Italy.  Of  course  this  honest  man  had  been  a 
great  sufferer  from  his  own  countrymen,  and  I  wish 
that  all  English  and  American  tourists,  who  think 
themselves  the  sole  victims  of  publican  rapacity  and 
deceit  in  Italy,  could  have  heard  our  honest  man's 
talk.  The  truth  is,  these  ingenious  people  prey  upon 
their  own  kind  with  an  avidity  quite  as  keen  as  that 
with  which  they  devour  strangers;  and  I  am  half- 
persuaded  that  a  ready-witted  foreigner  fares  better 
among  them  than  a  traveller  of  their  own  nation. 
Italians  will  always  pretend,  on  any  occasion,  that 


12  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

you  have  been  plundered  much  worse  than  they , 
but  the  reverse  often  happens.  They  give  little  in 
fees  ;  but  their  landlord,  their  porter,  their  driver, 
and  their  boatman  pillage  them  with  the  same  im- 
punity that  they  rob  an  Inglese.  As  for  this  honest 
man  in  the  diligence,  he  had  suffered  such  enormities 
at  the  hands  of  the  Paduans,  from  which  we  had  just 
escaped,  and  at  the  hands  of  the  Farrarese,  into 
which  we  were  rushing  (at  the  rate  of  five  miles 
scant  an  hour),  that  I  was  almost  minded  to  stop  be- 
tween the  nests  of  those  brigands  and  pass  the  rest 
of  my  days  at  Rovigo,  where  the  honest  man  lived. 
His  talk  was  amusingly  instructive,  and  went  to 
illustrate  the  strong  municipal  spirit  which  still  dom- 
inates all  Italy,  and  which  is  more  inimical  to  an 
effectual  unity  among  Italians  than  Pope  or  Kaiser 
has  ever  been.  Our  honest  man  of  Rovigo  was  a 
foreigner  at  Padua,  twenty-five  miles  north,  and  a 
foreigner  at  Ferrara,  twenty-five  miles  south  ;  and 
throughout  Italy  the  native  of  one  city  is  an  alien  in 
another,  and  is  as  lawful  prey  as  a  Russian  or  an 
American  with  people  who  consider  every  stranger 
as  sent  them  by  the  bounty  of  Providence  to  be 
eaten  alive.  Heaven  knows  what  our  honest  man 
had  paid  at  his  hotel  in  Padua,  but  in  Ferrara  the 
other  week  he  had  been  made  to  give  five  francs 
apiece  for  two  small  roast  chickens,  besides  a  fee  to 
the  waiter ;  and  he  pathetically  warned  us  to  beware 
how  we  dealt  with  Italians.  Indeed,  I  never  met  a 
man  so  thoroughly  persuaded  of  the  rascality  of  his 
nation  and  of  his  own  exceptional  virtue.  He  took 


FROM    PADUA  TO   FERRARA.  13 

snuff  with  his  whole  person ;  and  he  volunteered,  at 
sight  of  a  flock  of  geese,  a  recipe  which  I  give  the 
reader :  Stuff  a  goose  with  sausage  ;  let  it  hang  in 
the  weather  during  the  winter ;  and  in  the  spring  cut 
it  up  and  stew  it,  and  you  have  an  excellent  and 
delicate  soup. 

But  after  all  our  friend's  talk,  though  constant, 
became  dispiriting,  and  we  were  willing  when  he  left 
us.  His  integrity  had,  indeed,  been  so  oppressive 
that  I  was  glad  to  be  swindled  in  the  charge  for  our 
dinner  at  the  Iron  Crown,  in  Rovigo,  and  rode  more 
cheerfully  on  to  Ferrara. 


m. 


THE    PICTURESQUE,    THE    IMPROBABLE,    AND    THE 
PATHETIC   IN    FERRARA. 

I. 

IT  was  one  of  the  fatalities  of  travel,  rather  than 
any  real  interest  in  the  poet,  which  led  me  to  visit 
the  prison  of  Tasso  on  the  night  of  our  arrival,  which 
was  mild  and  moonlit.  The  portier  at  the  Stella 
d'Oro  suggested  the  sentimental  homage  to  sorrows 
which  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  respect,  and  I  went 
and  paid  this  homage  in  the  coal-cellar  in  which  was 
never  imprisoned  the  poet  whose  works  I  had  not 
read. 

The  famous  hospital  of  St.  Anna,  where  Tasso 
was  confined  for  seven  years,  is  still  an  asylum  for 
the  infirm  and  sick,  but  it  is  no  longer  used  as  a 
mad-house.  It  stands  on  one  of  the  long,  silent 
Ferrarese  streets,  not  far  from  the  Ducal  Castle,  and 
it  is  said  that  from  the  window  of  his  cell  the  un- 
happy poet  could  behold  Leonora  in  her  tower.  It 
may  be  so ;  certainly  those  who  can  believe  in  the 
genuineness  of  the  cell  will  have  no  trouble  in  be- 
lieving that  the  vision  of  Tasso  could  pierce  through 
several  brick  walls  and  a  Doric  portico,  and  at  last 
comprehend  the  lady  at  her  casement  in  the  castle. 


FERRARA.  15 

We  entered  a  modern  gateway,  and  passed  into  a 
hall  of  the  elder  edifice,  where  a  slim  young  soldier 
sat  reading  a  romance  of  Dumas.  This  was  the 
keeper  of  Tasso's  prison';  and  knowing  me,  by  the 
instinct  which  teaches  an  Italian  custodian  to  dis- 
tinguish his  prey,  for  a  seeker  after  the  True  and 
Beautiful,  he  relinquished  his  romance,  lighted  a 
waxen  taper,  unbolted  a  heavy  door  with  a  dramatic 
clang,  and  preceded  me  to  the  cell  of  Tasso.  We 
descended  a  little  stairway,  and  found  ourselves  in  a 
sufficiently  spacious  court,  which  was  still  ampler  in 
the  poet's  time,  and  was  then  a  garden  planted  with 
trees  and  flowers.  On  a  low  doorway  to  the  right 
was  inscribed  the  legend  "  PRIGIONE  DI  TASSO," 
and  passing  through  this  doorway  into  a  kind  of  re- 
ception-cell, we  entered  the  poet's  dungeon.  It  is  an 
oblong  room,  with  a  low  wagon-roof  ceiling,  under 
which  it  is  barely  possible  to  stand  upright.  A  sin- 
gle narrow  window  admits  the  light,  and  the  stone 
casing  of  this  window  has  a  hollow  in  a  certain  place, 
which  might  well  have  been  worn  there  by  the 
friction  of  the  hand  that  for  seven  years  passed  the 
prisoner  his  food  through  the  small  opening.  The 
young  custodian  pointed  to  this  memento  of  suffer- 
ing, without  effusion,  and  he  drew  my  attention  to 
other  remarkable  things  in  the  cell,  without  troubling 
himself  to  palliate  their  improbability  in  the  least. 
They  were  his  stock  in  trade  ;  you  paid  your  money, 
and  took  your  choice  of  believing  in  them  or  not. 
On  the  other  hand,  my  portier,  an  ex-valet  de  place, 
pumped  a  softly  murmuring  stream  of  enthusiasm, 


16  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

and  expressed  the  freshest  delight  in  the  inspection 
of  each  object  of  interest. 

One  still  faintly  discerns  among  the  vast  number  of 
names  with  which  the  walls  of  the  ante-cell  are  be- 
written,  that  of  Lamartine.  The  name  of  Byron, 
which  was  once  deeply  graven  in  the  stucco,  had 
been  scooped  away  by  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany 
(so  the  custodian  said),  and  there  is  only  part  of  a 
capital  B  now  visible.  But  the  cell  itself  is  still 
fragrant  of  associations  with  the  noble  bard,  who, 
according  to  the  story  related  to  Valery,  caused  him- 
self to  be  locked  up  in  it,  and  there,  with  his  head 
fallen  upon  his  breast,  and  frequently  smiting  his  brow, 
spent  two  hours  in  pacing  the  floor  with  great  strides. 
It  is  a  touching  picture  ;  but  its  pathos  becomes  some- 
what embarrassing  when  you  enter  the  cell,  and  see 
the  impossibility  of  .taking  more  than  three  generous 
paces  without  turning.  When  Byron  issued  forth, 
after  this  exercise,  he  said  (still  according  to  Valery) 
to  the  custodian  :  "  I  thank  thee,  good  man !  The 
thoughts  of  Tasso  are  now  all  in  my  mind  and  heart." 
"A  short  time  after  his  departure  from  Ferrara,"  adds 
the  Frenchman,  maliciously,  "  he  composed  his  '  La- 
ment of  Tasso,'  a  mediocre  result  from  such  inspira- 
tion." No  doubt  all  this  is  colored,  for  the  same 
author  adds  another  tint  to  heighten  the  absurdity 
of  the  spectacle :  he  declares  that  Byron  spent  part 
of  his  time  in  the  cell  in  writing  upon  the  ceiling 
Lamartine's  verses  on  Tasso,  which  he  misspelled. 
The  present  visitor  has  no  means  of  judging  of  the 
truth  concerning  this,  for  the  lines  of  the  poet  have 


FERRARA.  17 

been  so  smoked  by  the  candles  of  successive  pil- 
grims in  their  efforts  to  get  light  on  them,  that  they 
are  now  utterly  illegible.  But  if  it  is  uncertain  what 
were  Byron's  emotions  on  visiting  the  prison  of 
Tasso,  there  is  no  doubt  about  Lady  Morgan's :  she 
"  experienced  a  suffocating  emotion  ;  her  heart  failed 
her  on  entering  that  cell ;  and  she  satisfied  a  mel- 
ancholy curiosity  at  the  cost  of  a  most  painful  sen- 
sation." 

I  find  this  amusing  fact  stated  in  a  translation  of 
her  ladyship's  own  language,  in  a  clever  guide-book 
called  II  Servitore  di  Piazza,  which  I  bought  at  Fer- 
rara,  and  from  which,  I  confess,  I  have  learnt  all  I 
know  to  confirm  me  in  my  doubt  of  Tasso's  prison. 
The  Count  Avventi,  who  writes  this  book,  prefaces 
it  by  saying  that  he  is  a  valet  de  place  who  knows 
how  to  read  and  write,  and  he  employs  these  unusual 
gifts  with  singular  candor  and  clearness.  No  one,  he 
says,  before  the  nineteenth  century,  ever  dreamed  of 
calling  the  cellar  in  question  Tasso's  prison,  and  it 
was  never  before  that  time  made  the  shrine  of  sen- 
timental pilgrimage,  though  it  has  since  been  visited 
by  every  traveller  who  has  passed  through  Ferrara. 
It  was  used  during  the  poet's  time  to  hold  charcoal 
and  lime  ;  and  not  long  ago  died  an  old  servant  of 
the  hospital,  who  remembered  its  use  for  that  pur- 
pose. It  is  damp,  close,  and  dark,  and  Count  Av- 
venti thinks  it  hardly  possible  that  a  delicate  courtier 
could  have  lived  seven  years  in  a  place  unwholesome 
enough  to  kill  a  stout  laborer  in  two  months ;  while 
it  seems  to  him  not  probable  that  Tasso  should  have 
2 


18  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

received  there  the  visits  of  princes  and  other  dis- 
tinguished persons  whom  Duke  Alfonso  allowed  to 
see  him,  or  that  a  prisoner  who  was  often  permitted 
to  ride  about  the  city  in  a  carriage  should  have  been 
thrust  back  into  such  a  cavern  on  his  return  to  the 
hospital.  "After  this,"  says  our  valet  de  place  who 
knows  how  to  read  and  write,  "  visit  the  prison  of 
Tasso,  certain  that  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna  that 
great  man  was  confined  for  many  years  ;  "  and,  with 
this  chilly  warning,  leaves  his  reader  to  his  emotions. 
I  am  afraid  that  if  as  frank  caution  were  uttered 
in  regard  to  other  memorable  places,  the  objects  of 
interest  in  Italy  would  dwindle  sadly  in  number,  and 
the  valets  de  place,  whether  they  know  how  to  read 
and  write  or  not,  would  be  starved  to  death.  Even 
the  learning  of  Italy  is  poetic  ;  and  an  Italian  would 
rather  enjoy  a  fiction  than  know  a  fact  —  in  which 
preference  I  am  not  ready  to  pronounce  him  unwise. 
But  this  characteristic  of  his  embroiders  the  stranger's 
progress  throughout  the  whole  land  with  fanciful  im- 
probabilities ;  so  that  if  one  use  his  eyes  half  as  much 
as  his  wonder,  he  must  see  how  much  better  it  would 
have  been  to  visit,  in  fancy,  scenes  that  have  an  in- 
terest so  largely  imaginary.  The  utmost  he  can 
make  out  of  the  most  famous  place  is,  that  it  is  pos- 
sibly what  it  is  said  to  be,  and  is  more  probably  as 
near  that  as  any  thing  local  enterprise  could  furnish. 
He  visits  the  very  cell  in  which  Tasso  was  confined, 
and  has  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  was  the 
charcoal-cellar  of  the  hospital  in  which  the  poet 
dwelt.  And  the  genius  loci  —  where  is  that  ?  Away 


FERRARA.  19 

in  the  American  woods,  very  likely,  whispering  some 
dreamy,  credulous  youth,  —  telling  him  charming 
fables  of  its  locus,  and  proposing  to  itself  to  abandon 
him  as  soon  as  he  sets  foot  upon  its  native  ground. 
You  see,  though  I  cared  little  about  Tasso,  and 
nothing  about  his  prison,  I  was  heavily  disappointed 
in  not  being  able  to  believe  in  it,  and  felt  somehow 
that  I  had  been  awakened  from  a  cherished  dream. 


n. 

BUT  I  have  no  right  to  cast  the  unbroken  shadow 
of  my  skepticism  upon  the  reader,  and  so  I  tell  him 
a  story  about  Ferrara  which  I  actually  believe.  He 
must  know  that  in  Ferrara  the  streets  are  marvel- 
ous long  and  straight.  On  the  corners  formed  by 
the  crossing  of  two  of  the  longest  and  straightest  of 
these  streets  stand  four  palaces,  in  only  one  of 
which  we  have  a  present  interest.  This  palace  my 
guide  took  me  to  see,  after  our  visit  to  Tasso's  prison, 
and,  standing  in  its  shadow,  he  related  to  me  the 
occurrence  which  has  given  it  a  sad  celebrity.  It 
was,  in  the  time  of  the  gifted  toxicologist,  the  resi- 
dence of  Lucrezia  Borgia,  who  used  to  make  poison- 
ous little  suppers  there,  and  ask  the  best  families 
of  Italy  to  partake  of  them.  It  happened  on  one 
occasion  that  Lucrezia  Borgia  was  thrust  out  of  a 
ball-room  at  Venice  as  a  disreputable  character,  and 
treated  with  peculiar  indignity.  She  determined  to 
make  the  Venetians  repent  their  unwonted  accession 
of  virtue,  and  she  therefore  allowed  the  occurrence  to 


20  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

be  forgotten  till  the  proper  moment  of  her  revenge 
arrived,  when  she  gave  a  supper,  and  invited  to  her 
board  eighteen  young  and  handsome  Venetian  nobles. 
Upon  the  preparation  of  this  repast  she  bestowed  all 
the  resources  of  her  skillful  and  exquisite  knowledge  ; 
and  the  result  was,  the  Venetians  were  so  felicitously 
poisoned  that  they  had  just  time  to  listen  to  a  speech 
from  the  charming  and  ingenious  lady  of  the  house 
before  expiring.  In  this  address  she  reminded  her 
guests  of  the  occurrence  in  the  Venetian  ball-room, 
and  perhaps  exulted  a  little  tediously  in  her  present 
vengeance.  She  was  surprised  and  pained  when 
one  of  the  guests  interrupted  her,  and,  justifying 
the  treatment  she  had  received  at  Venice,  declared 
himself  her  natural  son.  The  lady  instantly  recog- 
nized him,  and  in  the  sudden  revulsion  of  maternal 
feeling,  begged  him  to  take  an  antidote.  This  he 
not  only  refused  to  do,  but  continued  his  dying  re- 
proaches, till  his  mother,  losing  her  self-command, 
drew  her  poniard  and  plunged  it  into  his  heart. 

The  blood  of  her  son  fell  upon  the  table-cloth,  and 
this  being  hung  out  of  the  window  to  dry,  the  wall 
received  a  stain,  which  neither  the  sun  nor  rain  of 
centuries  sufficed  to  efface,  and  which  was  only  re- 
moved with  the  masonry,  when  it  became  necessary 
to  restore  the  wall  under  that  window,  a  few  months 
before  the  time  of  my  visit  to  Ferrara.  Accordingly, 
the  blood-stain  has  now  disappeared  ;  but  the  consci- 
entious artist  who  painted  the  new  wall  has  faithfully 
restored  the  tragic  spot,  by  bestowing  upon  the  stucco 
a  bloody  dash  of  Venetian  red. 


FERA.RRA.  21 

III. 

IT  would  be  pleasant  and  merciful,  I  think,  if  old 
towns,  after  having  served  a  certain  number  of  cen- 
turies for  the  use  and  pride  of  men,  could  be  released 
to  a  gentle,  unmolested  decay.  I,  for  my  part,  would 
like  to  have  the  ducal  cities  of  North  Italy,  such  as 
Mantua,  Modena,  Parma,  and  Ferrara,  locked  up 
quietly  within  their  walls,  and  left  to  crumble  and 
totter  and  fall,  without  any  harder  presence  to  vex 
them  in  their  decrepitude  than  that  of  some  gray 
custodian,  who  should  come  to  the  gate  with  clank- 
ing keys,  and  admit  the  wandering  stranger,  if  he 
gave  signs  of  a  reverent  sympathy,  to  look  for  a 
little  while  upon  the  reserved  and  dignified  desola- 
tion. It  is  a  shame  to  tempt  these  sad  old  cities  into 
unnatural  activity,  when  they  long  ago  made  their 
peace  with  the  world,  and  would  fain  be  mixing  their 
weary  brick  and  mortar  with  the  earth's  unbuilded 
dust ;  and  it  is  hard  for  the  emotional  traveller  to 
restrain  his  sense  of  outrage  at  finding  them  inhab- 
ited, and  their  rest  broken  by  sounds  of  toil,  traffic, 
and  idleness  ;  at  seeing  places  that  would  gladly  have 
had  done  with  history  still  doomed  to  be  parts  of  po- 
litical systems,  to  read  the  newspapers,  and  to  expose 
railway  guides  and  caricatures  of  the  Pope  and  of 
Napoleon  in  their  shop  windows. 

Of  course,  Ferrara  was  not  incorporated  into  a  liv- 
ing nation  against  her  will,  and  I  therefore  marveled 
the  more  that  she  had  become  a  portion  of  the  pres- 
ent kingdom  of  Italy.  The  poor  little  State  had  its 


22  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

day  long  before  ours ;  it  had  been  a  republic,  and 
then  subject  to  lords ;  and  then,  its  lords  becoming 
dukes,  it  had  led  a  life  of  gayety  and  glory  till  its 
fall,  and  given  the  world  such  names  and  memories 
as  had  fairly  won  it  the  right  to  rest  forever  from 
making  history.  Its  individual  existence  ended  with 
that  of  Alfonso  II.,  in  1597,  when  the  Pope  de- 
clared it  reverted  to  the  Holy  See ;  and  I  always 
fancied  that  it  must  have  received  with  a  spectral, 
yet  courtly  kind  of  surprise,  those  rights  of  man 
which  bloody-handed  France  distributed  to  the  Ital- 
ian cities  in  1796 ;  that  it  must  have  experienced  a 
ghostly  bewilderment  in  its  rapid  transformation, 
thereafter,  under  Napoleon,  into  part  of  the  Cispadan 
Republic,  the  Cisalpine  Republic,  the  Italian  Repub- 
lic, and  the  Kingdom  of  Italy,  and  that  it  must 
have  sunk  back  again  under  the  rule  of  the  Popes 
with  gratitude  and  relief  at  last  —  as  phantoms  are 
reputed  to  be  glad  when  released  from  haunting  the 
world  where  they  once  dwelt.  I  speak  of  all  this,  not 
so  much  from  actual  knowledge  of  facts  as  from  per- 
sonal feeling ;  for  it  seems  to  me  that  if  I  were  a 
city  of  the  past,  and  must  be  inhabited  at  all,  I 
should  choose  just  such  priestly  domination,  assured 
that  though  it  consumed  my  substance,  yet  it  would 
be  well  for  my  fame  and  final  repose.  I  should  like  to 
feel  that  my  old  churches  were  safe  from  demolition ; 
that  my  old  convents  and  monasteries  should  always 
shelter  the  pious  indolence  of  friars  and  nuns.  It 
would  be  pleasant  to  have  studious  monks  exploring 
quaint  corners  of  my  unphilosophized  annals,  and 


FEBBARA.  23 

gentle,  snuff-taking  abbes  writing  up  episodes  in  the 
history  of  my  noble  families,  and  dedicating  them  to 
the  present  heirs  of  past  renown  ;  while  the  thinker 
and  the  reviewer  should  never  penetrate  my  archives. 
Being  myself  done  with  war,  I  should  be  glad  to 
have  my  people  exempt,  as  they  are  under  the  Pope, 
from  military  service ;  and  I  should  hope  that  if  the 
Legates  taxed  them,  the  taxes  paid  would  be  as  so 
many  masses  said  to  get  my  soul  out  of  the  purgatory 
of  perished  capitals.  Finally,  I  should  trust  that  in 
the  sanctified  keeping  of  the  Legates  my  mortal  part 
would  rest  as  sweetly  as  bones  laid  in  hallowed  earth 
brought  from  Jerusalem  ;  and  that  under  their  serene 
protection  I  should  be  forever  secure  from  being  in 
any  way  exhumed  and  utilized  by  the  ruthless  hand 
of  Progress. 

However,  as  I  said,  this  is  a  mere  personal  prefer- 
ence, and  other  old  cities  might  feel  differently.  In- 
deed, though  disposed  to  condole  with  Ferrara  upon 
the  fact  of  her  having  become  part  of  modern  Italy, 
I  could  not  deny,  on  better  acquaintance  with  her, 
that  she  was  still  almost  entirely  of  the  past.  She  has 
certainly  missed  that  ideal  perfection  of  non-existence 
under  the  Popes  which  I  have  just  depicted,  but  she 
is  practically  almost  as  profoundly  at  rest  under  the 
King  of  Italy.  One  may  walk  long  through  the 
longitude  and  rectitude  of  many  of  her  streets  with- 
out the  encounter  of  a  single  face :  the  place,  as  a 
whole,  is  by  no  means  as  lively  as  Pompeii,  where 
there  are  always  strangers ;  perhaps  the  only  cities  in 
the  world  worthy  to  compete  with  Ferrara  in  point 


24  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

of  agreeable  solitude  are  Mantua  and  Herculaneum. 
It  is  the  newer  part  of  the  town  —  the  modern  quar- 
ter built  before  Boston  was  settled  or  Ohio  was  known 
—  which  is  loneliest  ;  and  whatever  motion  and 
cheerfulness  are  still  felt  in  Ferrara  linger  fondly 
about  the  ancient  holds  of  life  —  about  the  street 
before  the  castle  of  the  Dukes,  and  in  the  elder  and 
narrower  streets  branching  away  from  the  piazza  of 
the  Duomo,  where,  on  market  days,  there  is  a  kind 
of  dreamy  tumult.  In  the  Ghetto  we  were  almost 
crowded,  and  people  wanted  to  sell  us  things,  with 
an  enterprise  that  contrasted  strangely  with  shop- 
keeping  apathy  elsewhere.  Indeed,  surprise  at  the 
presence  of  strangers  spending  two  days  in  Ferrara 
when  they  could  have  got  away  sooner,  was  the  only 
emotion  which  the  whole  population  agreed  in  ex- 
pressing with  any  degree  of  energy,  but  into  this 
they  seemed  to  throw  their  whole  vitality.  The 
Italians  are  everywhere  an  artless  race,  so  far  as  con- 
cerns the  gratification  of  their  curiosity,  from  which 
no  consideration  of  decency  deters  them.  Here  in 
Ferrara  they  turned  about  and  followed  us  with  their 
eyes,  came  to  windows  to  see  us,  lay  in  wait  for  us 
at  street-corners,  and  openly  and  audibly  debated 
whether  we  were  English  or  German.  We  might 
have  thought  this  interest  a  tribute  to  something  pe- 
culiar in  our  dress  or  manner,  had  it  not  visibly 
attended  other  strangers  who  arrived  with  us.  It 
rose  almost  into  a  frenzy  of  craving  to  know  more  of 
us  all,  when  on  the  third  day  the  whole  city  assem- 
bled before  our  hotel,  and  witnessed,  with  a  sort  of 


FERRARA.  25 

desperate  cry,  the  departure  of  the  heavy-laden  om- 
nibus which  bore  us  and  our  luggage  from  their 
midst. 

IV. 

I  DOUBT  if,  after  St.  Mark's  in  Venice,  the  Duomo 
at  Parma,  and  the  Four  Fabrics  at  Pisa,  there  is  a 
church  more  worthy  to  be  seen  for  its  quaint,  rich 
architecture,  than  the  Cathedral  at  Ferrara.  It  is 
of  that  beloved  Gothic  of  which  eye  or  soul  cannot 
weary,  and  we  continually  wandered  back  to  it  from 
other  more  properly  interesting  objects.  It  is  hor- 
ribly restored  in-doors,  and  its  Renaissance  splendors 
soon  drove  us  forth,  after  we  had  looked  at  the  Last 
Judgment  by  Bastianino.  The  style  of  this  painting 
is  muscular  and  Michelangelic,  and  the  artist's  notion 
of  putting  his  friends  in  heaven  and  his  foes  in  hell 
is  by  no  means  novel ;  but  he  has  achieved  fame  for 
his  picture  by  the  original  thought  of  making  it  his 
revenge  for  a  disappointment  in  love.  The  unhappy 
lady  who  refused  his  love  is  represented  in  the  depths, 
in  the  attitude  of  supplicating  the  pity  and  interest 
of  another  maiden  in  Paradise  who  accepted  Bastia- 
nino, and  who  consequently  has  no  mercy  on  her 
that  snubbed  him.  But  I  counted  of  far  more  value 
than  this  fresco  the  sincere  old  sculptures  on  the 
faQade  of  the  cathedral,  in  which  the  same  subject  is 
treated,  beginning  from  the  moment  the  archangel's 
trump  has  sounded.  The  people  getting  suddenly 
out  of  their  graves  at  the  summons  are  all  admirable  ; 
but  the  best  among  them  is  the  excellent  man  with 


26  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

one  leg  over  the  side  of  his  coffin,  and  tugging  with 
both  hands  to  pull  himself  up,  while  the  coffin-lid 
tumbles  off  behind.  One  sees  instantly  that  the 
conscience  of  this  early  riser  is  clean,  for  he  makes 
no  miserable  attempt  to  turn  over  for  a  nap  of  a  few 
thousand  years  more,  with  the  pretense  that  it  was 
not  the  trump  of  doom,  but  some  other  and  unim- 
portant noise  he  had  heard.  The  final  reward  of 
the  blessed  is  expressed  by  the  repose  of  one  small 
figure  in  the  lap  of  a  colossal  effigy,  which  I  under- 
stood to  mean  rest  in  Abraham's  bosom ;  but  the 
artist  has  bestowed  far  more  interest  and  feeling 
upon  the  fate  of  the  damned,  who  are  all  boiling  in 
rows  of  immense  pots.  It  is  doubtful  (considering 
the  droll  aspect  of  heavenly  bliss  as  figured  in  the 
one  small  saint  and  the  large  patriarch)  whether  the 
artist  intended  the  condition  of  his  sinners  to  be  so 
horribly  comic  as  it  is ;  but  the  effect  is  just  as  great, 
for  all  that,  and  the  slowest  conscience  might  well 
take  alarm  from  the  spectacle  of  fate  so  grotesque 
and  ludicrous  ;  for,  wittingly  or  unwittingly,  the  art- 
ist here  punishes,  as  Dante  knew  best  how  to  do,  the 
folly  of  sinners  as  well  as  their  wickedness.  Boil- 
ing is  bad  enough  ;  but  to  be  boiled  in  an  undeniable 
dinner-pot,  like  a  leg  of  mutton,  is  to  suffer  shame 
as  well  as  agony. 

We  turned  from  these  horrors,  and  walked  down 
by  the  side  of  the  Duomo  toward  the  Ghetto,  which 
is  not  so  foul  as  one  could  wish  a  Ghetto  to  be. 
The  Jews  were  admitted  to  Ferrara  in  1275,  and, 
throughout  the  government  of  the  Dukes,  were  free 


FEREARA.  27 

to  live  where  they  chose  in  the  city  ;  but  the  Pope's 
Legate  assigned  them  afterward  a  separate  quarter, 
which  was  closed  with  gates.  Large  numbers  of 
Spanish  Jews  fled  hither  during  the  persecutions, 
and  there  are  four  synagogues  for  the  four  languages, 
—  Spanish,  German,  French,  and  Italian.  Avventi 
mentions,  among  other  interesting  facts  concerning 
the  Ferrarese  Jews,  that  one  of  their  Rabbins,  Isaaco 
degli  Abranelli,  a  man  of  excellent  learning  in  the 
Scriptures,  claimed  to  be  descended  from  David. 
His  children  still  abide  in  Ferrara ;  and  it  may  have 
been  one  of  his  kingly  line  that  kept  the  tempting 
antiquarian's  shop  on  the  corner  from  which  you 
turn  up  toward  the  Library.  I  should  think  such  a 
man  would  find  a  sort  of  melancholy  solace  in  such  a 
place  :  filled  with  broken  and  fragmentary  glories  of 
every  kind,  it  would  serve  him  for  that  chamber  of 
desolation,  set  apart  in  the  houses  of  the  Oriental 
Hebrews  as  a  place  to  bewail  themselves  in ;  and, 
indeed,  this  idea  may  go  far  to  explain  the  universal 
Israelitish  fondness  for  dealing  in  relics  and  ruins. 

v. 

THE  Ghetto  was  in  itself  indifferent  to  us  ;  it  was 
merely  our  way  to  the  Library,  whither  the  great 
memory  of  Ariosto  invited  us  to  see  his  famous  relics 
treasured  there. 

We  found  that  the  dead  literati  of  Ferrara  had 
the  place  wholly  to  themselves;  not  a  living  soul 
disputed  the  solitude  of  the  halls  with  the  custodi- 


28  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

ans,  and  the  bust  of  Ariosto  looked  down  from  his 
monument  upon  rows  of  empty  tables,  idle  chairs, 
and  dusty  inkstands. 

The  poet,  who  was  painted  by  Titian,  has  a  tomb 
of  abandoned  ugliness,  and  sleeps  under  three  epi- 
taphs ;  while  cherubs  frescoed  on  the  wall  behind 
affect  to  disclose  the  mausoleum,  by  lifting  a  frescoed 
curtain,  but  deceive  no  one  who  cares  to  consider 
how  impossible  it  would  be  for  them  to  perform  this 
service,  and  caper  so  ignobly  as  they  do  at  the  same 
time.  In  fact  this  tomb  of  Ariosto  shocks  with  its 
hideousness  and  levity.  It  stood  formerly  in  the 
Church  of  San  Benedetto,  where  it  was  erected 
shortly  after  the  poet's  death,  and  it  was  brought 
to  the  Library  by  the  French,  when  they  turned  the 
church  into  a  barracks  for  their  troops.  The  poet's 
dust,  therefore,  rests  here,  where  the  worm,  work- 
ing silently  through  the  vellum  volumes  on  the 
shelves,  feeds  upon  the  immortality  of  many  other 
poets.  In  the  adjoining  hall  are  the  famed  and 
precious  manuscripts  of  Ariosto  and  of  Tasso.  A 
special  application  must  be  made  to  the  librarian,  in 
order  to  see  the  fragment  of  the  Furioso  in  Ariosto's 
hand,  and  the  manuscript  copy  of  the  G-erusalemma, 
with  the  corrections  by  Tasso.  There  are  some 
pages  of  Ariosto's  Satires,  framed  and  glazed  for 
the  satisfaction  of  the  less  curious ;  as  well  as  a  let- 
ter of  Tasso's,  written  from  the  Hospital  of  St. 
Anna,  which  the  poet  sends  to  a  friend,  with  twelve 
shirts,  and  in  which  he  begs  that  his  friend  will  have 
the  shirts  mended,  and  cautions  him  "  not  to  let 


FERRAEA.  29 

them  be  mixed  with  others."  But  when  the  slow 
custodian  had  at  last  unlocked  that  more  costly  frag- 
ment of  the  Furioso,  and  placed  it  in  my  hands,  the 
other  manuscripts  had  no  value  for  me.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  one  privilege  which  travel  has  reserved 
to  itself,  is  that  of  making  each  traveller,  in  presence 
of  its  treasures,  forget  whatever  other  travellers  have 
said  or  written  about  them.  I  had  read  so  much  of 
Ariosto's  industry,  and  of  the  proof  of  it  in  this  man- 
uscript, that  I  doubted  if  I  should  at  last  marvel  at 
it.  But  the  wonder  remains  with  the  relic,  and  I 
paid  it  my  homage  devoutly  and  humbly,  and  was 
disconcerted  afterward  to  read  again  in  my  Valery 
how  sensibly  all  others  had  felt  the  preciousness  of 
that  famous  page,  which,  filled  with  half  a  score  of 
previous  failures,  contains  in  a  little  open  space  near 
the  margin,  the  poet's  final  triumph  in  a  clearly  writ- 
ten stanza.  Scarcely  less  touching  and  interesting 
than  Ariosto's  painful  work  on  these  yellow  leaves,  is 
the  grand  and  simple  tribute  which  another  Italian 
poet  was  allowed  to  inscribe  on  one  of  them :  "  Vit- 
torio  Alfieri  beheld  and  venerated  ;  "  and  I  think, 
counting  over  the  many  memorable  things  I  saw  on 
the  road  to  Rome  and  the  way  home  again,  this  man- 
uscript was  the  noblest  thing  and  best  worthy  to  be 
remembered. 

When  at  last  I  turned  from  it,  however,  I  saw 
that  the  custodian  had  another  relic  of  Messer  Lodo- 
vico,  which  he  was  not  ashamed  to  match  with  the 
manuscript  in  my  interest.  This  was  the  bone  of  one 
of  the  poet's  fingers,  which  the  pious  care  of  Ferrara 


30  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

had  picked  up  from  his  dust  (when  it  was  removed 
from  the  church  to  the  Library),  and  neatly  bottled 
and  labeled.  In  like  manner,  they  keep  a  great 
deal  of  sanctity  in  bottles  with  the  bones  of  saints  in 
Italy ;  but  I  found  very  little  §avor  of  poesy  hanging 
about  this  literary  relic. 

As  if  the  melancholy  fragment  of  mortality  had 
marshaled  us  the  way,  we  went  from  the  Library  to 
the  house  of  Ariosto,  which  stands  at  the  end  of  a 
long,  long  street,  not  far  from  the  railway  station. 
There  was  not  a  Christian  soul,  not  a  boy,  not  a  cat 
nor  a  dog  to  be  seen  in  all  that  long  street,  at  high 
noon,  as  we  looked  down  its  narrowing  perspective, 
and  if  the  poet  and  his  friends  have  ever  a  mind  for 
a  posthumous  meeting  in  his  little  reddish  brick  house, 
there  is  nothing  to  prevent  their  assembly,  in  broad 
daylight,  from  any  part  of  the  neighborhood.  There 
was  no  presence,  however,  more  spiritual  than  a 
comely  country  girl  to  respond  to  our  summons  at 
the  door,  and  nothing  but  a  tub  of  corn-meal  disputed 
our  passage  inside.  Directly  I  found  the  house  in- 
habited by  living  people,  I  began  to  be  sorry  that  it 
was  not  as  empty  as  the  Library  and  the  street.  In- 
deed, it  is  much  better  with  Petrarch's  house  at 
Arqua,  where  the  grandeur  of  the  past  is  never  mo- 
lested by  the  small  household  joys  and  troubles  of 
the  present.  That  house  is  vacant,  and  no  eyes  less 
tender  and  fond  than  the  poet's  visitors  may  look 
down  from  its  windows  over  the  slope  of  vines  and 
ojives  which  it  crowns  ;  and  it  seemed  hard,  here  in 
Ferrara,  where  the  houses  are  so  many  and  the 


FERRARA.  31 

people  are  so  few,  that  Ariosto's  house  could  not  be 
left  to  him.  Parva  sed  apta  mihi,  he  has  content- 
edly written  upon  the  front ;  but  I  doubt  if  he  finds 
it  large  enough  for  another  family,  though  his  modern 
housekeeper  reserves  him  certain  rooms  for  visitors. 
To  gain  these,  you  go  up  to  the  second  story  — 
there  are  but  two  floors  —  and  cross  to  the  rear  of 
the  building,  where  Ariosto's  chamber  opens  out  of 
an  ante-room,  and  looks  down  upon  a  pinched  and 
faded  bit  of  garden.*  In  this  chamber  they  say  the 
poet  died.  It  is  oblong,  and  not  large.  I  should 
think  the  windows  and  roof  were  of  the  poet's  time, 
and  that  every  thing  else  had  been  restored ;  I  am 
quite  sure  the  chairs  and  inkstand  are  kindly-meant 
inventions  ;  for  the  poet's  burly  great  arm-chair  and 
graceful  inkstand  are  both  preserved  in  the  Library. 
But  the  house  is  otherwise  decent  and  probable ;  and 
I  do  not  question  but  it  was  in  the  hall  where  we  en- 
countered the  meal-tub  that  the  poet  kept  a  copy  of 
his  "  Furioso"  subject  to  the  corrections  and  advice 
of  his  visitors. 

The  ancestral  house  of  the  Ariosti  has  been  with- 
in a  few  years  restored  out  of  all  memory  and  sem- 
blance of  itself;  and  my  wish  to  see  the  place  in 

*  In  this  garden  the  poet  spent  much  of  his  time  —  chiefly  in 
plucking  up  and  transplanting  the  unlucky  shrubbery,  which  was 
never  suffered  to  grow  three  months  in  the  same  place, —  such 
was  the  poet's  rage  for  revision.  It  was  probably  never  a  very 
large  or  splendid  garden,  for  the  reason  that  Ariosto  gave  when 
reproached  that  he  who  knew  so  well  how  to  describe  magnificent 
palaces  should  have  built  such  a  poor  little  house :  "  It  was  easier 
to  make  verses  than  houses,  and  the  fine  palaces  in  his  poem  cost 
him  no  money." 


32  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

which  the  poet  was  born  and  spent  his  childhood  re- 
sulted, after  infinite  search,  in  finding  a  building 
faced  newly  with  stucco  and  newly  French-win- 
dowed. 

Our  portier  said  it  was  the  work  of  the  late  Eng- 
lish Yice-Consul,  who  had  bought  the  house.  When 
I  complained  of  the  sacrilege,  he  said :  "  Yes,  it  is 
true.  But  then,  you  must  know,  the  Ariosti  were 
not  one  of  the  noble  families  of  Ferrara." 


VI. 

THE  castle  of  the  Dukes  of  Ferrara,  about  which 
cluster  so  many  sad  and  splendid  memories,  stands 
in  the  heart  of  the  city.  I  think  that  the  moonlight 
which,  on  the  night  of  our  arrival,  showed  me  its 
massive  walls  rising  from  the  shadowy  moat  that  sur- 
rounds them,  and  its  four  great  towers,  heavily  but- 
tressed, and  expanding  at  the  top  into  bulging  cor- 
nices of  cavernous  brickwork,  could  have  fallen  on 
nothing  else  in  all  Italy  so  picturesque,  and  so  full  of 
the  proper  dread  charm  of  feudal  times,  as  this  pile 
of  gloomy  and  majestic  strength.  The  daylight  took 
nothing  of  this  charm  from  it ;  for  the  castle  stands 
isolated  in  the  midst  of  the  city,  as  its  founder  meant 
that  it  should,*  and  modern  civilization  has  not 

*  The  castle  of  Ferrara  was  begun  in  1385  by  Niccolo  cTEste, 
to  defend  himself  against  the  repetition  of  scenes  of  tumult,  in 
which  his  princely  rights  were  invaded.  One  of  his  tax-gatherers, 
Tommaso  da  Tortona,  had,  a  short  time  before,  made  himself  so 
obnoxious  to  the  people  by  his  insolence  and  severity,  that  they 
rose  against  him  and  demanded  his  life.  He  took  refuge  in  the 


FEBRARA.  33 

crossed  the  castle  moat,  to  undignify  its  exterior  with 
any  visible  touch  of  the  present.  To  be  sure,  when 
you  enter  it,  the  magnificent  life  is  gone  out  of  the 
old  edifice  ;  it  is  no  stately  halberdier  who  stands  on 
guard  at  the  gate  of  the  drawbridge,  but  a  stumpy 
Italian  soldier  in  baggy  trousers.  The  castle  is  full 
of  public  offices,  and  one  sees  in  its  courts  and  on  its 
stairways,  not  brilliant  men-at-arms,  nor  gay  squires 
and  pages,  but  whistling  messengers  going  from  one 
office  to  another  with  docketed  papers,  and  slipshod 
serving-men  carrying  the  clerks  their  coffee  in  very 
dirty  little  pots.  Dreary-looking  suitors,  slowly  grind- 
ing through  the  mills  of  law,  or  passing  in  the  routine 
of  the  offices,  are  the  guests  encountered  in  the  cor- 
ridors ;  and  all  that  bright- colored  throng  of  the  old 
days,  ladies  and  lor&s,  is  passed  from  the  scene.  The 
melodrama  is  over,  friends,  and  now  we  have  a  play 
of  real  life,  founded  on  fact  and  inculcating  a  moral. 

Of  course  the  custodians  were  slow  to  admit  any 
change  of  this  kind.  If  you  could  have  believed 
them,  —  and  the  poor  people  told  as  many  lies  as  they 
could  to  make  you,  —  you  would  believe  that  noth- 
ing had  ever  happened  of  a  commonplace  nature  in 

palace  of  his  master,  which  was  immediately  assailed.  The 
prince's  own  life  was  threatened,  and  he  was  forced  to  surrender 
the  fugitive  to  the  people,  who  tore  Tortona  limb  from  limb, 
and  then,1  after  parading  the  city  with  the  mutilated  remains, 
quietly  returned  to  their  allegiance.  Niccolo,  therefore,  caused 
this  castle  to  be  built,  which  he  strengthened  with  massive  walls 
and  towers  commanding  the  whole  city,  and  rendered  inaccessible 
by  surrounding  it  with  a  deep  and  wide  canal  from  the  river 
Reno. 

3 


34  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

this  castle.  The  taking-off  of  Hugo  and  Parisina 
they  think  the  great  merit  of  the  castle ;  and  one  of 
them,  seeing  us*,  made  haste  to  light  his  taper  and 
conduct  us  down  to  the  dungeons  where  those  un- 
happy lovers  were  imprisoned.  It  is  the  misfortune 
of  memorable  dungeons  to  acquire,  when  put  upon 
show,  just  the  reverse  of  those  properties  which 
should  raise  horror  and  distress  in  the  mind  of  the 
beholder.  It  was  impossible  to  deny  that  the  cells 
of  Parisina  and  of  Hugo  were  both  singularly  warm, 
dry,  and  comfortable  ;  and  we,  who  had  never  been 
imprisoned  in  them,  found  it  hard  to  command,  for 
our  sensation,  the  terror  and  agony  of  the  miserable 
ones  who  suffered  there.  We,  happy  and  secure  in 
these  dungeons,  could  not  think  of  the  guilty  and 
wretched  pair  bowing  themselves  to  the  headsman's 
stroke  in  the  gloomy  chamber  under  the  Hall  of 
Aurora ;  nor  of  the  Marquis,  in  his  night-long  walk, 
breaking  at  last  into  frantic  remorse  and  tears  to  know 
that  his  will  had  been  accomplished.  Nay,  there 
upon  its  very  scene,  the  whole  tragedy  faded  from 
us  ;  and,  seeing  our  wonder  so  cold,  the  custodian 
tried  to  kindle  it  by  saying  that  in  the  time  of  the 
event  these  cells  were  much  dreadfuller  than  now, 
which  was  no  doubt  true.  The  floors  of  the  dun- 
geons are  both  below  the  level  of  the  moat,  and  the 
narrow  windows,  or  rather  crevices  to  admit  the 
light,  were  cut  in  the  prodigiously  thick  wall  just 
above  the  water,  and  were  defended  with  four  succes- 
sive iron  gratings.  The  dungeons  are  some  distance 
apart :  that  of  Hugo  was  separated  from  the  outer 


FERRABA.  35 

wall  of  the  castle  by  a  narrow  passage-way,  while 
Parisina's  window  opened  directly  upon  the  moat. 

When  we  ascended  again  to  the  court  of  the 
castle,  the  custodian,  abetted  by  his  wife,  would  have 
interested  us  in  two  memorable  wells  there,  between 
which,  he  said,  Hugo  was  beheaded ;  and  unabashed 
by  the  small  success  of  this  fable,  he  pointed  out  two 
windows  in  converging  angles  overhead,  from  one  of 
which  the  Marquis,  looking  into  the  other,  discov- 
ered the  guilt  of  the  lovers.  The  windows  are  now 
walled  up,  but  are  neatly  represented  to  the  credu- 
lous eye  by  a  fresco  of  lattices. 

Valery  mentions  another  claim  upon  the  interest 
of  the  tourist  which  this  castle  may  make,  in  the  fact 
that  it  once  sheltered  John  Calvin,  who  was  pro- 
tected by  the  Marchioness  Rene*e,  wife  of  Hercules 
II. ;  and  my  Servitore  di  Piazza  (the  one  who  knows 
how  to  read  and  write)  gives  the  following  account 
of  the  matter,  in  speaking  of  the  domestic  chapel 
which  Renee  had  built  in  the  castle  :  "  This  lady 
was  learned  in  belles-lettres  and  in  the  schismatic 
doctrines  which  at  that  time  were  insinuating  them- 
selves throughout  France  and  Germany,  and  with 
which  Calvin,  Luther,  and  other  proselytes,  agitated 
the  people,  and  threatened  war  to  the  Catholic  re- 
ligion. Nationally  fond  of  innovation,  and  averse  to 
the  court  of  Rome  on  account  of  the  dissensions  be- 
tween her  father  and  Pope  Julius  II.,  Rene*e  began 
to  receive  the  teachings  of  Calvin,  with  whom  she 
maintained  correspondence.  Indeed,  Calvin  him- 
self, under  the  name  of  Huppeville,  visited  her  in 


36  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

Ferrara,  in  1536,  and  ended  by  corrupting  her  mind 
and  seducing  her  into  his  own  errors,  which  pro- 
duced discord  between  her  and  her  religious  hus- 
band, and  resulted  in  his  placing  her  in  temporary 
seclusion,  in  order  to  attempt  her  conversion.  Hence, 
the  chapel  is  faced  with  marble,  paneled  in  relief, 
and  studied  to  avoid  giving  place  ^o  saints  or  images, 
which  were  disapproved  by  the  almost  Anabaptist 
doctrines  of  Calvin,  then  fatally  imbibed  by  the 
princess." 

We  would  willingly,  as  Prostestants,  have  visited 
this  wicked  chapel;  but  we  were  prevented  from 
seeing  it,  as  well  as  the  famous  frescoes  of  Dosso 
Dossi  in  the  Hall  of  Aurora,  by  the  fact  that  the 
prefect  was  giving  a  little  dinner  (pranzetto)  in  that 
part  of  the  castle.  W,e  were  not  so  greatly  disap- 
pointed in  reality  as  we  made  believe ;  but  our  servi- 
tore  di  piazza  (the  unlettered  one)  was  almost  moved 
to  lesa  maestd  with  vexation.  He  had  been  full  of 
scorching  patriotism  the  whole  morning ;  but  now 
electing  the  unhappy  and  apologetic  custodian  rep- 
resentative of  Piedmontese  tyranny,  he  bitterly  as- 
sailed the  government  of  the  king.  In  the  times  of 
His  Holiness  the  Legates  had  made  it  their  pleasure 
and  duty  to  show  the  whole  castle  to  strangers.  But 
now  strangers  must  be  sent  away  without  seeing  its 
chief  beauties,  because,  forsooth,  the  prefect  was  giv- 
ing a  little  dinner.  Presence  of  the  Devil ! 


FERRARA.  37 


VII.  , 

IN  our  visits  to  the  different  churches  in  Ferrara 
we  noticed  devotion  in  classes  of  people  who  are 
devout  nowhere  else  in  Italy.  Not  only  came  solid- 
looking  business  men  to  say  their  prayers,  but  gay 
young  dandies,  who  knelt  and  repeated  their  orisons 
and  then  rose  and  went  seriously  out.  In  Venice 
they  would  have  posted  themselves  against  a  pillar, 
sucked  the  heads  of  their  sticks,  and  made  eyes  at 
the  young  ladies  kneeling  near  them.  This  degree 
of  religion  was  all  the  more  remarkable  in  Ferrara, 
because  that  city  had  been  so  many  years  under 
the  Pope,  and  His  Holiness  contrives  commonly  to 
prevent  the  appearance  of  religion  in  young  men 
throughout  his  dominions. 

Valery  speaks  of  the  delightful  society  which  he 
met  in  the  gray  old  town  ;  and  it  is  said  that  Ferrara 
has  an  unusual  share  of  culture  in  her  wealthy  class, 
which  is  large.  With  such  memories  of  learning 
and  literary  splendor  as  belong  to  her,  it  would  be 
strange  if  she  did  not  in  some  form  keep  alive  the 
sacred  flame.  But,  though  there  may  be  refinement 
and  erudition  in  Ferrara,  she  has  given  no  great 
name  to  modern  Italian  literature.  Her  men  of 
letters  seem  to  be  of  that  race  of  grubs  singularly 
abundant  in  Italy,  —  men  who  dig  out  of  archives  and 
libraries  some  topic  of  special  and  momentary  interest 
and  print  it,  unstudied  and  uphilosophized.  Their 
books  are  material,  not  literature,  and  it  is  marvelous 


38  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

how  many  of  them  are  published.  A  writer  on  any 
given  subject  can  heap  together  from  them  a  mass 
of  fact  and  anecdote  invaluable  in  its  way ;  but  it 
is  a  mass  without  life  or  light,  and  must  be  vivified 
by  him  who  uses  it  before  it  can  serve  the  world, 
which  does  not  care  for  its  dead  local  value.  It  re- 
mains to  be  seen  whether  the  free  speech  and  free 
press  of  Italy  can  reawaken  the  intellectual  activity 
of  the  cities  which  once  gave  the  land  so  many 
literary  capitals. 

What  numbers  of  people  used  to  write  verses  in 
Ferrara  !  By  operation  of  the  principle  which  causes 
things  concerning  whatever  subject  you  happen  to  be 
interested  in  to  turn  up  in  every  direction,  I  found 
a  volume  of  these  dead-and-gone  immortals  at  a  book- 
stall, one  day,  in  Venice.  It  is  a  curiously  yellow 
and  uncomfortable  volume  of  the  year  1703,  printed 
all  in  italics.  I  suppose  there  are  two  hundred  odd 
rhymers  selected  from  in  that  book,  —  and  how  droll 
the  most  of  them  are,  with  their  unmistakable  traces 
of  descent  from  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  Guarini !  What 
acres  of  enameled  meadow  there  are  in  those  pages ! 
Brooks  enough  to  turn  all  the  mills  in  the  world 
go  purling  through  them.  I  should  say  some  thou- 
sands of  nymphs  are  constantly  engaged  in  weaving 
garlands  there,  and  the  swains  keep  such  a  piping 
on  those  familiar  notes,  —  Amore,  dolore,  crudele^  and 
miele.  Poor  little  poets  !  they  knew  no  other  tunes. 
Do  not  now  weak  voices  twitter  from  a  hundred 
books,  in  unconscious  imitation  of  the  hour's  great 


FERRARA.  39 

VIII. 

I  THINK  some  of  the  pleasantest  people  in  Italy  are 
the  army  gentlemen.  There  is  the  race's  gentleness 
in  their  ways,  in  spite  of  their  ferocious  trade,  and 
an  American  freedom  of  style.  They  brag  in  a 
manner  that  makes  one  feel  at  home  immediately; 
and  met  in  travel,  they  are  ready  to  render  any  little 
kindness. 

The  other  year  at  Reggio  '  (which  is  not  far  from 
Modena)  we  stopped  to  dine  at  a  restaurant  where 
the  whole  garrison  had  its  coat  off  and  was  playing 
billiards,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  officers, 
who  were  dining.  These  rose  and  bowed  as  we 
entered  their  room,  and  when  the  waiter  pretended 
that  such  and  such  dishes  were  out  (in  Italy  the 
waiter,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  always  pretends 
that  the  best  dishes  are  out),  they  bullied  him  for  the 
honor  of  Italy,  and  made  him  bring  them  to  us. 
Indeed,  I  am  afraid  his  life  was  sadly  harassed  by 
those  brave  men.  We  were  in  deep  despair  at  find- 
ing no  French  bread,  and  the  waiter  swore  with  the 
utmost  pathos  that  there  was  none ;  but  as  soon  as 
his  back  was  turned,  a  tightly  laced  little  captain  rose 
and  began  to  forage  for  the  bread.  He  opened  every 
drawer  and  cupboard  in  the  room,  and  finding  none* 
invaded  another  room,  captured  several  loaves  from 
the  plates  laid  there,  and  brought  them  back  in 
triumph,  presenting  them  to  us  amid  the  applause 
of  his  comrades.  The  dismay  of  the  waiter,  on  his 
return,  was  ineffable. 


I 

40  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

Three  officers,  who  dined  with  us  at  the  table 
cFhdte  of  the  Stella  d'Oro  in  Ferrara  (and  excellent 
dinners  were  those  we  ate  there),  were  visibly  anxious 
to  address  us,  and  began  not  uncivilly,  but  still  in 
order  that  we  should  hear,  to  speculate  on  our 
nationality  among  themselves.  It  appeared  that  we 
were  Germans ;  for  one  of  these  officers,  who  had 
formerly  been  in  the  Austrian  service  at  Vienna, 
recognized  the  word  bitter  in  our  remarks  on  the 
beccafichi.  As  I  did  not  care  to  put  these  fine  fel- 
lows to  the  trouble  of  hating  us  for  others'  faults,  I 
made  bold  to  say  that  we  were  not  Germans,  and  to 
add  that  bitter  was  also  an  English  word.  Ah  !  yes, 
to  be  sure,  one  of  them  admitted  ;  when  he  was  with 
the  Sardinian  army  in  the  Crimea,  he  had  frequently 
heard  the  word  used  by  the  English  soldiers.  He 
nodded  confirmation  of  what  he  said  to  his  comrades ; 
and  then  was  good  enough  to  display  what  English 
he  knew.  It  was  barely  sufficient  to  impress  his 
comrades ;  but  it  led  the  way  to  a  good  deal  of  talk 
in  Italian. 

"  I  suppose  you  gentlemen  are  all  Piedmontese  ?  " 
I  said. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  our  Crimean.  "  I  am  from 
Como ;  this  gentleman,  il  signor  Conte,  (il  signor 
Conte  bowed,)  is  of  Piacenza ;  and  our  friend  across 
the  table  is  Genoese.  The  army  is  doing  a  great  deal 
to  unify  Italy.  We  are  all  Italians  now,  and  you 
see  we  speak  Italian,  and  not  our  dialects,  to- 
gether." 

My  cheap  remark  that  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  see 


FERRAEA.  41 

them  all  united  under  one  flag,  after  so  many  ages 
of  mutual  hate  and  bloodshed,  turned  the  talk  upon 
the  origin  of  the  Italian  flag  ;  and  that  led  our 
Crimean  to  ask  what  was  the  origin  of  the  English 
colors. 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  I  said.    "  We  are  Americans." 

Our  friends  at  once  grew  more  cordial.  "  Oh, 
American*!"  They  had  great  pleasure  of  it.  Did 
we  think  Signor  Leencolen  would  be  reflected  ? 

I  supposed  that  he  had  been  elected  that  day, 
I  said. 

Ah  !  this  was  the  election  day,  then.      Cmpeito  ! 

At  this  the  Genoese  frowned  superior  intelligence, 
and  the  Crimean  gazing  admiringly  upon  him,  said 
he  had  been  nine  months  at  Nuova  York,  and  that 
he  had  a  brother  living  there.  The  poor  Crimean 
boastfully  added  that  he  himself  had  a  cousin  in 
America,  and  that  the  Americans  generally  spoke 
Spanish.  The  count  from  Piacenza  wore  an  air  of 
pathetic  discomfiture,  and  tried  to  invent  a  trans- 
atlantic relative,  as  I  think,  but  failed. 

I  am  persuaded  that  none  of  these  warriors  really 
had  kinsmen  in  America,  but  that  they  all  pretended 
to  have  them,  out  of  politeness  to  us,  and  that  they 
believed  each  other.  It  was  very  kind  of  them,  and 
we  were  so  grateful  that  we  put  no  embarrassing 
questions.  Indeed,  the  conversation  presently  took 
another  course,  and  grew  to  include  the  whole  table. 

There  was  an  extremely  pretty  Italian  present 
with  her  newly  wedded  husband,  who  turned  out  to 
be  a  retired  officer.  He  fraternized  at  once  with  our 


42  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

soldiers,  and  when  we  left  the  table  they  all  rose  and 
made  military  obeisances.  Having  asked  leave  to 
light  their  cigars,  they  were  smoking  —  the  sweet 
young  bride  blowing  a  fairy  cloud  from  her  rosy  lips 
with  the  rest.  "  Indeed,"  I  heard  an  Italian  lady 
once  remark,  "  why  should  men  pretend  to  deny  us 
the  privilege  of  smoking  ?  It  is  so  pleasant  and 
innocent."  It  is  but  just  to  the  Italians  to  say  that 
they  do  not  always  deny  it;  and  there  is,  without 
doubt,  a  certain  grace  and  charm  in  a  pretty  fuma- 
trice.  I  suppose  it  is  a  habit  not  so  pleasing  in  an 
ugly  or  middle-aged  woman. 


IV. 

THROUGH    BOLOGNA    TO    GENOA. 
I. 

WE  had  intended  to  stay  only  one  day  at  Ferrara, 
but  just  at  that  time  the  storms  predicted  on  the 
Adriatic  and  Mediterranean  coasts,  by  Mathieu  de  la 
Drome,  had  been  raging  all  over  Italy,  and  the  rail- 
way communications  were  broken  in  every  direction. 
The  magnificent  work  through  and  under  the  Apen- 
nines, between  Bologna  and  Florence,  had  been 
washed  away  by  the  mountain  torrents  in  a  dozen 
places,  and  the  roads  over  the  plains  of  the  Romagna 
had  been  sapped  by  the  flood,  and  rendered  useless, 
where  not  actually  laid  under  water. 

On  the  day  of  our  intended  departure  we  left  the 
hotel,  with  other  travellers,  gayly  incredulous  of  the 
landlord's  fear  that  no  train  would  start  for  Bologna. 
At  the  station  we  found  a  crowd  of  people  waiting 
and  hoping,  but  there  was  a  sickly  cast  of  doubt  in 
some  faces,  and  the  labeled  employe's  of  the  railway 
wore  looks  of  ominous  importance.  Of  course  the 
crowd  did  not  lose  its  temper.  It  sought  information 
of  the  officials  running  to  and  fro  with  telegrams,  in 
a  spirit  of  national  sweetness,  and  consoled  itself 


44  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

with  saying,  as  Italy  has  said  under  all  circumstances 
of  difficulty  for  centuries  :  Ci  vuol  pazienza  !  At  last 
a  blank  silence  fell  upon  it,  as  the  Capo-Stazione 
advanced  toward  a  well-dressed  man  in  the  crowd, 
and  spoke  to  him  quietly.  The  well-dressed  man 
lifted  his  forefinger  and  waved  it  back  and  forth  before 
his  face  :  — 

The  Well-dressed  Man.  —  Dunque,  non  si  parte 
piu  ?  (No  departures,  then  ?) 

The  Capo-Stazione  (waving  his  forefinger  in  like 
manner.)  • —  Non  si  parte  piu.  (Like  a  mournful 
echo.) 

We  knew  quite  as  well  from  this  pantomime  of 
negation  as  from  the  dialogue  our  sad  fate,  and  sub- 
mitted to  it.  Some  adventurous  spirit  demanded 
whether  any  trains  would  go  on  the  morrow.  The 
Capo-Stazione,  with  an  air  of  one  who  would  not 
presume  to  fathom  the  designs  of  Providence,  re- 
sponded: "Who,  knows?  To-day,  certainly  not. 
To-morrow,  perhaps.  But  " —  and  vanished. 

It  may  give  an  idea  of  the  Italian  way  of  doing 
things  to  say  that,  as  we  understood,  this  break  in 
the  line  was  only  a  few  miles  in  extent,  that  trains 
could  have  approached  both  to  and  from  Bologna, 
and  that  a  little  enterprise  on  the  part  of  the  company 
could  have  passed  travellers  from  one  side  to  the 
other  with  very  small  trouble  or  delay.  But  the 
railway  company  was  as  much  daunted  by  the  in- 
undation as  a  peasant  going  to  market,  and  for  two 
months  after  the  accident  no  trains  carried  passengers 
from  one  city  to  the-  other.  No  doubt,  however,  the 


THROUGH  BOLOGNA  TO  GENOA.        45 

line  was  under  process  of  very  solid  repair  mean- 
while. 

For  the  present  the  only  means  of  getting  to 
Bologna  was  by  carriage  on  the  old  highway,  and 
accordingly  we  took  passage  thither  in  the  omnibus 
of  the  Stella  d'Oro. 

There  was  little  to  interest  us  in  the  country  over 
which  we  rode.  It  is  perfectly  flat,  and  I  suppose 
the  reader  knows  what  quantities  of  hemp  and  flax 
are  raised  there.  The  land  seems  poorer  than  in 
Lombardy,  and  the  farm-houses  and  peasants'  cottages 
are  small  and  mean,  though  the  peasants  themselves, 
when  we  met  them,  looked  well  fed,  and  were  cer- 
tainly well  clad.  The  landscape  lay  soaking  in  a 
dreary  drizzle  the  whole  way,  and  the  town  of  Cento, 
when  we  reached  it,  seemed  miserably  conscious  of 
being  too  wet  and  dirty  to  go  in-doors,  and  was 
loitering  about  in  the  rain.  Our  arrival  gave  the 
poor  little  place  a  sensation,  for  I  think  such  a  thing 
£s  an  omnibus  had  not  been  seen  there  since  the 
railway  of  Bologna  and  Ferrara  was  built.  We  went 
into  the  principal  caffd  to  lunch,  —  a  caffe  much  too 
large  for  Cento,  with  immense  red-leather  cushioned 
sofas,  and  a  cold,  forlorn  air  of  half-starved  gentility, 
a  clean,  high-roofed  caffe  and  a  breezy,  —  and  thither 
the  youthful  nobility  and  gentry  of  the  place  followed 
us,  and  ordered  a  cup  of  coffee,  that  they  might  sit 
down  and  give  us  the  pleasure  of  their  distinguished 
company.  They  put  on  their  very  finest  manners, 
and  took  their  most  captivating  attitudes  for  the 
ladies'  sake  ;  and  the  gentlemen  of  our  party  fancied 


46  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

that  it  was  for  them  these  young  men  began  to  dis- 
cuss the  Roman  question.  How  loud  they  were, 
and  how  earnest!  And  how  often  they  consulted 
the  newspapers  of  the  caffS  !  (Older  newspapers  I 
never  saw  off  a  canal-boat.)  I  may  tire  some  time 
of  the  artless  vanity  of  the  young  Italians,  so  in- 
nocent, so  amiable,  so  transparent,  but  I  think  I 
never  shall. 

The  great  painter  Guercino  was  born  at  Cento, 
and  they  have  a  noble  and  beautiful  statue  of  him 
in  the  piazza,  which  the  town  caused  to  be  erected 
from  contributions  by  all  the  citizens.  Formerly  his 
house  was  kept  for  a  show  to  the  public  ;  it  was  full 
of  the  pictures  of  the  painter  and  many  mementos 
of  him ;  but  recently  the  paintings  have  been  taken 
to  the  gallery,  and  the  house  is  now  closed.  The 
gallery  is,  consequently,  one  of  the  richest  second- 
rate  galleries  in  Italy,  and  one  may  spend  much 
longer  time  in  it  than  we  gave,  with  great  profit. 
There  are  some  most  interesting  heads  of  Christ',' 
painted,  as  Guercino  always  painted  the  Saviour,  with 
a  great  degree  of  humanity  in  the  face.  It  is  an 
excellent  countenance,  and  full  of  sweet  dignity,  but 
quite  different  from  the  conventional  face  of  Christ. 


n.  i 

AT  night  we  were  again  in  Bologna,  of  which  we 
had  not  seen  the  gloomy  arcades  for  two  years.  It 
must  be  a  dreary  town  at  all  times :  in  a  rain  it  is 
horrible  ;  and  I  think  the  whole  race  of  arcaded  cities, 


THROUGH  BOLOGNA  TO  GENOA.        47 

Treviso,  Padua,  and  Bologna,  are  dull,  blind,  and 
comfortless.  The  effect  of  the  buildings  vaulted 
above  the  sidewalks  is  that  of  a  continuous  cellar- 
way  ;  your  view  of  the  street  is  constantly  interrupted 
by  the  heavy  brick  pillars  that  support  the  arches ;  the 
arcades  are  not  even  picturesque.  Liking  always  to 
leave  Bologna  as  quickly  as  possible,  and,  on  this 
occasion,  learning  that  there  was  no  hope  of  crossing 
the  Apennines  to  Florence,  we  made  haste  to  take 
the  first  train  for  Genoa,  meaning  to  proceed  thence 
directly  to  Naples  by  steamer. 

It  was  a  motley  company  that  sat  down  in  Hotel 
Brun  the  morning  after  our  arrival  in  Bologna  to  a 
breakfast  of  murky  coffee  and  furry  beefsteaks,  as- 
sociated with  sleek,  greasy,  lukewarm  fried  potatoes. 
I  am  sure  that  if  each  of  our  weather-bound  pilgrims 
had  told  his  story,  we  had  been  as  well  entertained 
as  those  at  Canterbury.  However,  no  one  thought 
fit  to  give  his  narrative  but  a  garrulous  old  Hebrew 
from  London,  who  told  us  how  he  had  been  made 
to  pay  fifteen  guineas  for  a  carriage  to  cross  the 
Apennines,  and  had  been  obliged  to  walk  part  of  the 
way  at  that  price.  He  was  evidently  proud,  now 
the  money  was  gone,  of  having  been  cheated  of  so 
much;  and  in  him  we  saw  that  there  was  at  least 
one  human  being  more  odious  than  a  purse-proud 
Englishman  —  namely,  a  purse-proud  English  Jew. 
He  gave  his  nobl^e  name  after  a  while,  as  something 
too  precious  to  be  kept  from  the  company,  when 
recommending  one  of  the  travellers  to  go  to  the  Hotel 
d'Angleterre  in  Rome :  "  The  best  'otel  out  of  Eng- 


48  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

land.  You  may  mention  my  name,  if  you  like  — 
Mr.  Jonas."  The  recipient  of  this  favor  noted  down 
the  talismanic  words  in  his  pocket-book,  and  Mr. 
Jonas,  conscious  of  having  conferred  a  benefit  on  his 
race,  became  more  odious  to  it  than  ever.  An  Eng- 
lishman is  of  a  composition  so  uncomfortably  original 
that  no  one  can  copy  him,  though  many  may  carica- 
ture. I  saw  an  American  in  London  once  who 
thought  himself  an  Englishman  because  he  wore  leg- 
of-mutton  whiskers,  declaimed  against  universal  suf- 
frage and  republics,  and  had  an  appetite  for  high 
game.  He  was  a  hateful  animal,  surely,  but  he  was 
not  the  British  lion  ;  and  this  poor  Hebrew  at  Bologna 
was  not  a  whit  more  successful  in  his  imitation  of 
the  illustrious  brute,  though  he  talked,  like  him,  of 
nothing  but  hotels,  and  routes  of  travel,  and  hack- 
men  and  porters,  and  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do 
in  Italy  but  get  through  it  as  quickly  and  abusively 
as  possible. 

We  were  very  glad,  I  say,  to  part  from  all  this  at 
Bologna  and  take  the  noon  train  for  Genoa.  In  our 
car  there  were  none  but  Italians,  and  the  exchange  of 
"  La  Perseveranza  "  of  Milan  for  "  IlPopolo  "  of  Tu- 
rin with  one  of  them  quickly  opened  the  way  for  con- 
versation and  acquaintance.  (En  passant :  I  know 
of  no  journal  in  the  United  States  whose  articles  are 
better  than  those  of  the  "  Perseveranza,"  and  it  was 
gratifying  to  an  American  to  read  in  this  ablest  jour- 
nal of  Italy  nothing  but  applause  and  encouragement 
of  the  national  side  in  our  late  war.)  My  new-made 
friend  turned  out  to  be  a  Milanese.  He  was  a  phy- 


THROUGH  BOLOGNA   TO   GENOA.  49 

sician,  and  had  served  as  a  surgeon  in  the  late  war  of 
Italian  independence  ;  but  was  now  placed  in  a  hospital 
in  Milan.  There  was  a  gentle  little  blonde  with  him, 
and  at  Piacenza,  where  we  stopped  for  lunch,  "  You 
see,"  said  he,  indicating  the  lady,  "  we  are  newly 
married,"  —  which  was,  indeed,  plain  enough  to  any 
one  who  looked  at  their  joyous  faces,  and  observed 
how  great  disposition  that  little  blonde  had  to  nestle 
on  the  young  man's  broad  shoulder.  "  I  have  a 
week's  leave  from  my  place,"  he  went  on,  "  and  this 
is  our  wedding  journey.  We  were  to  have  gone  to 
Florence,  but  it  seems  we  are  fated  not  to  see  that 
famous  city." 

He  spoke  of  it  as  immensely  far  off,  and  herein 
greatly  amused  us  Americans,  who  had  outgrown 
distances. 

"  So  we  are  going  to  Genoa  instead,  for  two  or 
three  days."  "  Oh,  have  you  ever  been  at  Genoa  ?  " 
broke  in  the  bride.  "  What  magnificent  palaces  ! 
And  then  the  bay,  and  the  villas  in  the  environs  ! 
There  is  the  Villa  Pallavicini,  with  beautiful  gardens, 
where  an  artificial  shower  breaks  out  from  the  bushes, 
and  sprinkles  the  people  who  pass.  Such  fun !  "  and 
she  continued  to  describe  vividly  a  city  of  which  she 
had  only  heard  from  her  husband  ;  and  it  was  easy 
to  see  that  she  walked  in  paradise  wherever  he  led 
her. 

They  say  that  Italian  husbands  and  wives  do  not 
long  remain  fond  of  each  other,  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble in  the  presence  of  these  happy  people  not  to  be- 


50  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

lieve  in  the  eternity  of  their  love,  and  it  was  hard  to 
keep  from  "  dropping  into  poetry  "  on  account  of 
them.  Their  bliss  infected  every  body  in  the  car, 
and  in  spite  of  the  weariness  of  our  journey,  and  the 
vexation  of  the  misadventures  which  had  succeeded 
one  another  unsparingly  ever  since  we  left  home,  we 
found  ourselves  far  on  the  way  to  Genoa  before  we 
thought  to  grumble  at  the  distance.  There  was  with 
us,  besides  the  bridal  party,  a  lady  travelling  from 
Bologna  to  Turin,  who  had  learned  English  in  Lon- 
don, and  spoke  it  much  better  than  most  Londoners. 
It  is  surprising  how  thoroughly  Italians  master  a  lan- 
guage so  alien  to  their  own  as  ours,  and  how  frequently 
you  find  them  acquainted  with  English.  From 
Russia  the  mania  for  this  tongue  has  spread  all  over 
the  Continent,  and  in  Italy  English  seems  to  be 
prized  first  among  the  virtues. 

As  we  drew  near  Genoa,  the  moon  came  out  on 
purpose  to  show  us  the  superb  city,  and  we  strove 
eagerly  for  a  first  glimpse  of  the  proud  capital  where 
Columbus  was  born.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  glimpse 
was  but  slight  and  false,  for  railways  always  enter 
cities  by  some  mean  level,  from  which  any  pictur- 
esque view  is  impossible. 

Near  the  station  in  Genoa,  however,  is  the  weak 
and  ugly  monument  which  the  municipality  has  lately 
raised  to  Columbus.  The  moon  made  the  best  of 
this,  which  stands  in  a  wide  open  space,  and  con- 
trived, with  an  Italian  skill  in  the  arrangement  of 
light,  to  produce  an  effect  of  undeniable  splendor. 


THROUGH  BOLOGNA  TO  GENOA.        51 

On  the  morrow,  we  found  out  by  the  careless  candor 
of  the  daylight  what  a  uselessly  big  head  Columbus 
had,  and  how  the  sculptor  had  not  very  happily 
thought  proper  to  represent  him  with  his  sea-legs  on. 


V. 

UP    AND    DOWN    GENOA. 

I  HAD  my  note-book  with  me  on  this  journey,  and 
pledged  myself  to  make  notes  in  it.  And,  indeed,  I 
did  really  do  something  of  the  kind,  though  the  re- 
sult of  my  labors  is  by  no  means  so  voluminous  as  I 
would  like  it  to  be,  now  when  the  work  of  wishing 
there  were  more  notes  is  so  easy.  We  spent  but  one 
day  in  Genoa,  and  I  find  such  a  marvelous  succinct 
record  of  this  in  my  book  that  I  am  tempted  to  give 
it  here,  after  the  fashion  of  that  Historical  Heavy- 
weight who  writes  the  Life  of  "  Frederick  the  Great." 

"  Genoa,  November  13.  —  Breakfast  d  la  fourchette 
excellently  and  cheaply.  I  buy  a  hat.  We  go  to 
seek  the  Consul,  and,  after  finding  every  thing  else 
for  two  hours,  find  him.  Genoa  is  the  most  magnifi- 
cent city  I  ever  saw  ;  and  the  new  monument  to 
Columbus  about  the  weakest  possible  monument. 
Walk  through  the  city  with  Consul ;  Doge's  palace  ; 
cathedral  ;  girl  turning  somersaults  in  the  street ; 
blind  madman  on  the  cathedral  steps.  We  leave  for 
Naples  at  twelve  midnight." 

As  for  the  breakfast,  it  was  eaten  at  one  of  the 
many  good  caffe"  in  Genoa,  and  perhaps  some  statis- 


UP   AND   DOWN    GENOA.  53 

tician  will  like  to  know  that  for  a  beefsteak  and  pota- 
toes, with  a  half-bottle  of  Ligurian  wine,  we  paid  a 
franc.  For  this  money  we  had  also  the  society  of  an 
unoccupied  waiter,  who  leaned  against  a  marble  col- 
umn and  looked  on,  with  that  gentle,  half-compassion- 
ate interest  in  our  appetites,  which  seems  native  to 
the  tribe  of  waiters.  A  slight  dash  of  surprise  is 
in  this  professional  manner ;  and  there  is  a  faint 
smile  on  the  solemn,  professional  countenance,  which 
is  perhaps  prompted  by  too  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  kitchen  and  the  habits  of  the  cook. 
The  man  who  passes  his  life  among  beefsteaks  can- 
not be  expected  to  love  them,  or  to  regard  without 
wonder  the  avidity  with  which  others  devour  them. 
I  imagine  that  service  in  restaurants  must  beget 
simple  and  natural  tastes  in  eating,  and  that  the 
jaded  men  who  minister  there  to  our  pampered  ap- 
petites demand  only  for  themselves  — 

"A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring." 

Turning  from  this  thought  to  the  purchase  of  my 
hat,  I  do  not  believe  that  literary  art  can  interest  the 
reader  in  that  purely  personal  transaction,  though  I 
have  no  doubt  that  a  great  deal  might  be  said  about 
buying  hats  as  a  principle.  I  prefer,  therefore,  to 
pass  to  our  search  for  the  Consul. 

A  former  Consul  at ,  whom  I  know,  has  told 

me  a  good  many  stories  about  the  pieces  of  popu- 
lar mind  which  he  received  at  different  times  from 
the  travelling  public,  in  reproof  of  his  difficulty  of 
discovery ;  and  I  think  it  must  be  one  of  the  most 


54  ITALIAN   JO'URNEYS. 

jealously  guarded  rights  of  American  citizens  in  for- 
eign lands  to  declare  the  national  representative  hard 
to  find,  if  there  is  no  other  complaint  to  lodge  against 
him.  It  seems  to  be,  in  peculiar  degree,  a  quality  of 
consulship  at  ,  to  be  found  remote  and  inac- 
cessible. My  friend  says  that  even  at  New  York, 
before  setting  out  for  his  post,  when  inquiring  into 
the  history  of  his  predecessors,  he  heard  that  they 
were  one  and  all  hard  to  find ;  and  he  relates  that  on 
the  steamer,  going  over,  there  was  a  low  fellow  who 
set  the  table  in  a  roar  by  a  vulgar  anecdote  to  this 
effect :  — 

"  There  was  once  a  consul  at  ,  who  indi- 
cated his  office-hours  by  the  legend  on  his  door,  4  In 
from  ten  to  one.'  An  old  ship-captain,  who  kept 
coming  for  about  a  week  without  finding  the  Consul, 
at  last  furiously  wrote,  in  the  terms  of  wager,  under 
this  legend,  '  Ten  to  one  you  're  out !  ' 

My  friend  also  states  that  one  day  a  visitor  of  his 
remarked  :  "  I  'm  rather  surprised  to  find  you  in.  As 
a  general  rule,  I  never  do  find  consuls  in."  Habitu- 
ally, his  fellow-countrymen  entertained  him  with  ac- 
counts of  their  misadventures  in  reaching  him.  It 
was  useless  to  represent  to  them  that  his  house  was 
in  the  most  convenient  locality  in  ,  where,  in- 
deed, no  stranger  can  walk  twenty  rods  from  his  hotel 
without  losing  himself;  that  their  guide  was  an  ass, 
or  their  courier  a  rogue.  They  listened  to  him  po- 
litely, but  they  never  pardoned  him  in  the  least ;  and 
neither  will  I  forgive  the  Consul  at  Genoa.  I  had 
no  earthly  consular  business  with  him,  but  a  private 


UP   AND    DOWN    GENOA.  55 

favor  to  ask.  It  was  Sunday,  and  I  could  not  reason- 
ably expect  to  find  him  at  his  office,  or  any  body  to 
tell  me  where  he  lived  ;  but  I  have  seldom  had  so 
keen  a  sense  of  personal  wrong  and  national  neglect 
as  in  my  search  for  that  Consul's  house. 

In  Italy  there  is  no  species  of  fact  with  which  any 
human  being  you  meet  will  not  pretend  to  have  per- 
fect acquaintance,  and,  of  course,  the  driver  whose 
fiacre  we  took  professed  himself  a  complete  guide  to 
the  Consul's  whereabouts,  and  took  us  successively 
to  the  residences  of  the  consuls  of  all  the  South 
American  republics.  It  occurred  to  me  that  it  might 
be  well  to  inquire  of  these  officials  where  their  col- 
league was  to  be  found  ;  but  it  is  true  that  not  one 
consul  of  them  was  at  home  !  Their  doors  were 
opened  by  vacant  old  women,  in  whom  a  vague  intel- 
ligence feebly  guttered,  like  the  wick  of  an  expiring 
candle,  and  who,  after  feigning  to  throw  floods  of 
light  on  the  object  of  my  search,  successively  flick- 
ered out,  and  left  me  in  total  darkness. 

Till  that  day,  I  never  knew  of  what  lofty  flights 
stairs  were  capable.  As  out-of-doors,  in  Genoa,  it  is 
either  all  up  or  down  hill,  so  in-doors  it  is  either  all 
up  or  down  stairs.  Ascending  and  descending,  in  one 
palace  after  another,  those  infinite  marble  steps,  it 
became  a  question  not  solved  to  this  hour,  whether  it 
was  worse  to  ascend  or  descend,  —  each  ordeal  in  its 
turn  seemed  so  much  more  terrible  than  the  other. 

At  last  I  resolved  to  come  to  an  understanding 
with  the  driver,  and  I  spent  what  little  breath  I  had 
left  —  it  was  dry  and  hot  as  the  simoom  —  in  blow- 


56  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

ing  up  that  infamous  man.  "  You  are  a  great 
driver,"  I  said,  "  not  to  know  your  own  city.  What 
are  you  good  for  if  you  can't  take  a  foreigner  to  his 
consul's  ?  "  "  Signore,"  answered  the  driver  pa- 
tiently, "  you  would  have  to  get  a  book  in  two  vol- 
umes by  heart,  in  order  to  be  able  to  find  every 
body  in  Genoa.  This  city  is  a  labyrinth." 

Truly,  it  had  so  proved,  and  I  could  scarcely  believe 
in  my  good  luck  when  I  actually  found  my  friend, 
and  set  out  with  him  on  a  ramble  through  its  toils. 

O 

A  very  great  number  of  the  streets  in  Genoa  are 
footways  merely,  and  these  are  as  narrow,  as  dark,  as 
full  of  jutting  chimney-places,  balconies,  and  opened 
window-shutters,  and  as  picturesque  as  the  little  alleys 
in  Venice.  They  wander  at  will  around  the  bases 
of  the  gloomy  old  stone  palaces,  and  seem  to  have  a 
vagabond  fondness  for  creeping  down  to  the  port,  and 
losing  themselves  there  in  a  certain  cavernous  arcade 
which  curves  round  the  water  with  the  flection  of  the 
shore,  and  makes  itself  a  twilight  at  noonday.  Under 
it  are  clangorous  shops  of  iron-smiths,  and  sizzling 
shops  of  marine  cooks,  and,  looking  down  its  dim 
perspective,  one  beholds  chiefly  sea-legs  coming  and 
going,  more  or  less  affected  by  strong  waters ;  and  as 
the  faces  to  which  these  sea-legs  belong  draw  near, 
one  discerns  sailors  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  — 
tawny  men  from  Sicily  and  Norway,  as  diverse  in 
their  tawniness  as  olive  and  train-oil  ;  sharp  faces 
from  Nantucket  and  from  the  Piraeus,  likewise  might- 
ily different  in  their  sharpness  ;  blonde  Germans  and 
blonde  Englishmen  ;  and  now  and  then  a  colored 


UP   AND   DOWN   GENOA.  57 

brother  also  in  the  seafaring  line,  with  sea-legs,  also, 
more  or  less  affected  by  strong  waters  like  the  rest. 

What  curious  people  are  these  seafarers !  They 
coast  the  whole  world,  and  know  nothing  of  it,  being 
more  ignorant  and  helpless  than  children  on  shore. 
I  spoke  with  the  Yankee  mate  of  a  ship  one  day  at 
Venice,  and  asked  him  how  he  liked  the  city. 

Well,  he  had  not  been  ashore  yet. 

He  was  told  he  had  better  go  ashore ;  that  the 
Piazza  San  Marco  was  worth  seeing. 

Well,  he  knew  it ;  he  had  seen  pictures  of  it ;  but 
he  guessed  he  would  n't  go  ashore. 

Why  not,  now  he  was  here  ? 

Well,  he  laid  out  to  go  ashore  the  next  time  he 
came  to  Venice. 

And  so,  bless  his  honest  soul,  he  lay  three  weeks 
at  Venice  with  his  ship,  after  a  voyage  of  two  months, 
and  he  sailed  away  without  ever  setting  his  foot  on 
that  enchanted  ground. 

I  should  have  liked  to  stop  some  of  those  seafarers 
and  ask  them  what  they  thought  of  Genoa. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  little  streets  —  impassable 
for  horses  —  that  the  people  sat  and  talked,  as  Heine 
fabled,  in  their  doorways,  and  touched  knees  with  the 
people  sitting  and  talking  on  the  thresholds  of  the 
opposite  side.  But  we  saw  no  gossipers  there  on  our 
Sunday  in  Genoa  ;  and  I  think  the  domestic  race  of 
Heine's  day  no  longer  lives  in  Genoa,  for  every  body 
we  saw  on  the  streets  was  gayly  dressed  in  the  idea 
of  the  last  fashions,  and  was  to  be  met  chiefly  in  the 
public  promenades.  The  fashions  were  French  ;  but 


58  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

here  still  lingers  the  lovely  phantom  of  the  old  na- 
tional costume  of  Genoa,  and  snow-white  veils  flut- 
tered from  many  a  dark  head,  and  caressed  many  an 
olive  cheek.  It  is  the  kindest  and  charitablest  of 
attirements,  this  white  veil,  and,  while  decking 
beauty  to  the  most  perilous  effect,  befriends  and 
modifies  age  and  ugliness. 

The  pleasure  with  which  I  look  at  the  splendor  of 
an  Italian  crowd  in  winter  is  always  touched  with 
melancholy.  I  know  that,  at  the  time  of  its  noonday 
promenade,  it  has  nothing  but  a  cup  of  coffee  in  its 
stomach  ;  that  it  has  emerged  from  a  house  as  cold 
and  dim  as  a  cellar ;  and  that  it  will  presently  go 
home  to  dine  on  rice  and  boiled  beef.  I  know  that 
chilblains  secretly  gnaw  the  hands  inside  of  its  kid 
gloves,  and  I  see  in  the  rawness  of  its  faces  the  an- 
guish of  winter-long  suffering  from  cold.  But  I  also 
look  at  many  in  this  crowd  with  the  eye  of  the  econ- 
omist, and  wonder  how  people  practicing  even  so 
great  self-denial  as  they  can  contrive  to  make  so 
much  display  on  their  little  means,  —  how  those 
clerks  of  public  offices,  who  have  rarely  an  income 
of  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  can  dress  with  such 
peerless  gorgeousness.  I  suppose  the  national  instinct 
teaches  them  ways  and  means  unknown  to  us.  The 
passion  for  dress  is  universal :  the  men  are  as  fond  of 
it  as  the  women  ;  and,  happily,  clothes  are  compara- 
tively cheap.  It  is  no  great  harm  in  itself,  this  dis- 
play :  it  is  only  a  pity  that  there  is  often  nothing,  or 
worse  than  nothing,  under  the  shining  surface. 

O '  O 

We  walked  with  the  brilliant  Genoese  crowd  upon 


UP   AND   DOWN   GENOA.  59 

the  hill  where  the  public  promenade  overlooks  a  land- 
scape of  city  and  country,  houses  and  gardens,  vines 
and  olives,  which  it  makes  the  heart  ache  to  behold, 
it  is  so  faultlessly  beautiful.  Behind  us  the  fountain 
was  — 

"  Shaking  its  loosened  silver  in  the  sun  ;  " 

the  birds  were  singing;  and  there  were  innumerable 
fair  girls  going  by,  about  whom  one  might  have  made 
romances  if  one  had  not  known  better.  Our  friend 
pointed  out  to  us  the  "  pink  jail  "  in  which  Dickens 
lived  while  at  Genoa;  and  showed* us  on  the  brow  of 
a  distant  upland  the  villa,  called  II  Paradiso,  which 
Byron  had  occupied.  I  dare  say  this  Genoese  joke 
is  already  in  print :  That  the  Devil  reentered  Para- 
dise when  Byron  took  this  villa.  Though,  in  loveli- 
est Italy,  one  is  half-persuaded  that  the  Devil  had 
never  left  Paradise. 

After  lingering  a  little  longer  on  that  delicious 
height,  we  turned  and  went  down  for  a  stroll  through 
the  city. 

My  note-book  says  that  Genoa  is  the  most  magnifi- 
cent city  I  ever  saw,  and  I  hold  by  my  note-book, 
though  I  hardly  know  how  to  prove  it.  Venice  is, 
and  remains,  the  most  beautiful  city  in  the  world  ; 
but  her  ancient  rival  impresses  you  with  greater 
splendor.  I  suppose  that  the  exclusively  Renaissance 
architecture,  which  Ruskin  declares  the  architecture 
of  pride,  lends  itself  powerfully  to  this  effect  in  Genoa. 
It  is  here  in  its  best  mood,  and  there  is  little  gro- 
tesque Renaissance  to  be  seen,  though  the  palaces 


60  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

are,  as  usual,  loaded  with  ornament.  The  Via  Nu- 
ova  is  the  chief  thoroughfare  of  the  city,  and  the  crowd 
pours  through  this  avenue  between  long  lines  of  pal- 
aces. Height  on  height  rise  the  stately,  sculptured 
fagades,  colonnaded,  statued,  pierced  by  mighty  door- 
ways and  lofty  windows  ;  and  the  palaces  seem  to 
gain  a  kind  of  aristocratic  hauteur  from  the  fact  that 
there  are  for  the  most  part  no  sidewalks,  and  that 
the  carriages,  rolling  insolently  through  the  crowd, 
threaten  constantly  to  grind  the  pedestrian  up  against 
their  carven  marbles,  and  immolate  him  to  their  stony 
pride.  There  is  something  gracious  and  gentle  in  the 
grandeur  of  Venice,  and  much  that  the  heart  loves 
to  cling  to  ;  but  in  Genoa  no  sense  of  kindliness  is 
touched  by  the  magnificence  of  the  city. 

It  was  an  unspeakable  relief,  after  such  a  street,  to 
come,  on  a  sudden,  upon  the  Duomo,  one  of  the  few 
Gothic  buildings  in  Genoa,  and  rest  our  jaded  eyes 
on  that  architecture  which  Heaven  seems  truly  to 
have  put  into  the  thoughts  of  man  together  with  the 
Christian  faith.  O  beloved  beauty  of  aspiring  arches, 
of  slender  and  clustered  columns,  of  flowering  capi- 
tals and  window-traceries,  of  many-carven  breadths 
and  heights,  wherein  all  Nature  breathes  and  blos- 
soms again  !  There  is  neither  Greek  perfection,  nor 
winning  Byzantine  languor,  nor  insolent  Renaissance 
opulence,  which  may  compare  with  this  loveliness  of 
yours  !  Alas  that  the  interior  of  this  Gothic  temple 
of  Genoa  should  abound  in  the  abomination  of  rococo 
restoration  !  They  say  that  the  dust  of  St.  John  the 
Baptist  lies  there  within  a  costly  shrine  ;  and  I  won- 


UP   AND   DOWN  GENOA.  61 

der  that  it  can  sleep  in  peace  amid  all  that  heathen- 
ish show  of  bad  taste.  But  the  poor  saints  have  to 
suffer  a  great  deal  in  Italy. 

Outside,  in  the  piazza  before  the  church,  there  was 
an  idle,  cruel  crowd,  amusing  itself  with  the  efforts 
of  a  blind  old  man  to  find  the  entrance.  He  had  a 
number  of  books  which  he  desperately  laid  down 
while  he  ran  his  helpless  hands  over  the  clustered 
columns,  and  which  he  then  desperately  caught  up 
again,  in  fear  of  losing  them.  At  other  times  he 
paused,  and  wildly  clasped  his  hands  upon  his  eyes, 
or  wildly  threw  up  his  arms  ;  and  then  began  to  run 
to  and  fro  again  uneasily,  while  the  crowd  laughed 
and  jeered.  Doubtless  a  taint  of  madness  afflicted 
him  ;  but  not  the  less  he  seemed  the  type  of  a  blind 
soul  that  gropes  darkly  about  through  life,  to  find  the 
doorway  of  some  divine  truth  or  beauty,  —  touched 
by  the  heavenly  harmonies  from  within,  and  misera- 
bly failing,  amid  the  scornful  cries  and  bitter  glee  of 
those  who  have  no  will  but  to  mock  aspiration. 

The  girl  turning  somersaults  in  another  place  had 
far  more  popular  sympathy  than  the  blind  madman  at 
the  temple  door,  but  she  was  hardly  a  more  cheerful 
spectacle.  For  all  her  festive  spangles  and  fairy-like 
brevity  of  skirts,  she  had  quite  a  work-a-day  look  upon 
her  honest,  blood-red  face,  as  if  this  were  business 
though  it  looked  like  sport,  and  her  part  of  the  diver- 
sion were  as  practical  as  that  of  the  famous  captain 
of  the  waiters,  who  gave  the  act  of  peeling  a  sack  of 
potatoes  a  playful  effect  by  standing  on  his  head.  The 
poor  damsel  was  going  over  and  over,  to  the  sound  of 


62  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

most  dismal  drumming  and  braying,  in  front  of  the 
immense  old  palace  of  the  Genoese  Doges,  —  a  clas- 
sic building,  stilted  on  a  rustic  base,  and  quite  worthy 
of  Palladio,  if  any  body  thinks  that  is  praise. 

There  was  little  left  of  our  day  when  we  had 
dined  ;  but  having  seen  the  outside  of  Genoa,  and 
not  hoping  to  see  the  inside,  we  found  even  this  little 
heavy  on  our  hands,  and  were  glad  as  the  hour  drew 
near  when  we  were  to  take  the  steamer  for  Naples. 

It  had  been  one  of  the  noisiest  days  spent  during 
several  years  in  clamorous  Italy,  whose  voiceful  up- 
roar strikes  to  the  summits  of  her  guardian  Alps,  and 
greets  the  coming  stranger,  and  whose  loud  Addio 
would  stun  him  at  parting,  if  he  had  not  meanwhile 
become  habituated  to  the  operatic  pitch  of  her  every- 
day tones.  In  Genoa,  the  hotels,  taking  counsel  of 
the  vagabond  streets,  stand  about  the  cavernous  ar- 
cade already  mentioned,  and  all  the  noise  of  the  ship- 
ping reaches  their  guests.  We  rose  early  that  Sun- 
day morning  to  the  sound  of  a  fleet  unloading  car- 
goes of  wrought-iron,  and  of  the  hard  swearing  of  all 
nations  of  seafaring  men.  The  whole  day  long  the 
tumult  followed  us,  and  seemed  to  culminate  at  last 
in  the  screams  of  a  parrot,  who  thought  it  fine  to 
cry,  "  Piove  !  piove  !  piove  !  "  —  "  It  rains  !  it 
rains  !  it  rains  !  "  —  and  had,  no  doubt,  a  secret 
interest  in  some  umbrella-shop.  This  unprincipled 
bird  dwelt  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
street  where  you  see  the  awful  tablet  in  the  wall 
devoting  to  infamy  the  citizens  of  the  old  republic 
that  were  false  to  their  country.  The  sight  of  that 


UP   AND   DOWN   GENOA.  63 

pitiless  stone  recalls  with  a  thrill  the  picturesque,  un- 
happy past,  with  all  the  wandering,  half-benighted 
efforts  of  the  people  to  rend  their  liberty  from  now 
a  foreign  and  now  a  native  lord.  At  best,  they  only 
knew  how  to  avenge  their  wrongs ;  but  now,  let  us 
hope,  they  have  learnt,  with  all  Italy,  to  prevent 
them.  The  will  was  never  wanting  of  old  to  the 
Ligurian  race,  and  in  this  time  they  have  done  their 
full  share  to  establish  Italian  freedom. 

I  do  not  know  why  it  should  have  been  so  surpris- 
ing to  hear  the  boatman  who  rowed  us  to  the  steam- 
er's anchorage  speak  English  ;  but,  after  his  harsh 
Genoese  profanity  in  getting  his  boat  into  open  water, 
it  was  the  last  thing  we  expected  from  him.  It 
had  somehow  the  effect  of  a  furious  beast  address- 
ing you  in  your  native  tongue,  and  telling  you  it  was 
"  Wary  poordy  wedder ;  "  and  it  made  us  cling  to 
his  good-nature  with  the  trembling  solicitude  of 
Little  Red-Riding-Hood,  when  she  begins  to  have 
the  first  faint  suspicions  of  her  grandmother.  How- 
ever, our  boatman  was  no  wild  beast,  but  took  our 
six  cents  of  buonamano  with  the  base  servility  of  a 
Christian  man,  when  he  had  put  our  luggage  in  the 
cabin  of  the  steamer.  I  wonder  how  he  should  have 
known  us  for  Americans  ?  He  did  so  know  us,  and 
said  he  had  been  at  New  York  in  better  days,  when 
he  voyaged  upon  higher  seas  than  those  he  now  nav- 
igated. 

On  board,  we  watched  with  compassion  an  old 
gentleman  in  the  cabin  making  a  hearty  meal  of  sar- 
dines and  fruit-pie,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever 


64  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

been  at  sea.  No,  he  said.  I  could  have  wept  over 
that  innocent  old  gentleman's  childlike  confidence  of 
appetite,  and  guileless  trust  of  the  deep. 

We  went  on  deck,  where  one  of  the  gentle  beings 
of  our  party  declared  that  she  would  remain  as  long 
as  Genoa  was  in  sight ;  and  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
scene  was  worthy  of  the  promised  devotion.  There, 
in  a  half-circle  before  us,  blazed  the  lights  of  the 
quay  ;  above  these  twinkled  the  lamps  of  the  steep 
streets  and  climbing  palaces  ;  over  and  behind  all 
hung  the  darkness  on  the  heights,  —  a  sable  cloud 
dotted  with  ruddy  points  of  flame  burning  in  the 
windows  of  invisible  houses. 

"Merrily  did  we  drop" 

down  the  bay,  and  presently  caught  the  heavy  swell 
of  the  open  sea.  The  other  gentle  being  of  our 
party  then  clutched  my  shoulder  with  a  dreadful 
shudder,  and  after  gasping,  "  O  Mr.  Scribbler,  why 
will  the  ship  roll  so  ?  "  was  meekly  hurried  below  by 
her  sister,  who  did  not  return  for  a  last  glimpse  of 
Genoa  the  Proud. 

In  a  moment  heaven's  sweet  pity  flapped  away  as 
with  the  sea-gull's  wings,  and  I  too  felt  that  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  and  that  I  must  go  and  lie  down 
in  the  cabin.  With  anguished  eyes  I  beheld  upon 
the  shelf  opposite  to  mine  the  innocent  old  gentleman 
who  had  lately  supped  so  confidently  on  sardines  and 
fruit-pie.  He  lay  upon  his  back,  groaning  softly  to 
himself. 


VI. 

BY  SEA  FROM  GENOA  TO  NAPLES. 
I. 

LIKE  the  Englishman  who  had  no  prejudices,  I  do 
hate  a  Frenchman  ;  and  there  were  many  French- 
men among  our  passengers  on  the  Messina,  in  whose 
company  I  could  hardly  have  been  happy,  had  I  not 
seen  them  horribly  sea-sick.  After  the  imprudent 
old  gentleman  of  the  sardines  and  fruit-pie,  these 
wretched  Gauls  were  the  first  to  be  seized  with  the 
malady,  which  became  epidemic,  and  were  miserable 
up  to  the  last  moment  on  board.  To  the  enormity 
of  having  been  born  Frenchmen,  they  added  the 
crime  of  being  commercial  travellers,  —  a  class  of  fel- 
low-men of  whom  we  know  little  at  home,  but  who 
are  met  everywhere  in  European  travel.  They  spend 
more  than  half  their  lives  in  movement  from  place 
to  place,  and  they  learn  to  snatch  from  every  kind  of 
travel  its  meagre  comforts,  with  an  insolent  disregard 
of  the  rights  and  feelings  of  other  passengers.  They 
excuse  an  abominable  trespass  with  a  cool "  Pardon  ! " 
take  the  best  seat  everywhere,  and  especially  treat 
women  with  a  savage  rudeness,  to  which  an  Ameri- 
can vainly  endeavors  to  accustom  his  temper.  I  have 

5 


66  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

seen  commercial  travellers  of  all  nations,  and  I  think 
I  must  award  the  French  nation  the  discredit  of  pro- 
ducing the  most  odious  commercial  travellers  in  the 
world.  The  Englishman  of  this  species  wraps  him- 
self in  his  rugs,  and  rolls  into  his  corner,  defiantly, 
but  not  aggressively,  boorish  ;  the  Italian  is  almost  a 
gentleman  ;  the  German  is  apt  to  take  sausage  out 
of  a  newspaper  and  eat  it  with  his  penknife ;  the 
Frenchman  aggravates  human  nature  beyond  endur- 
ance by  his  restless  ill-breeding,  and  his  evident  in- 
tention not  only  to  keep  all  his  own  advantages,  but 
to  steal  some  of  yours  upon  the  first  occasion.  There 
were  three  of  these  monsters  on  our  steamer  :  one  a 
slight,  bloodless  young  man,  with  pale  blue  eyes  and 
an  incredulous  grin  ;  another,  a  gigantic  full-bearded 
animal  in  spectacles  ;  the  third  an  infamous  plump 
little  creature,  in  absurdly  tight  pantaloons,  with  a 
cast  in  his  eye,  and  a  habit  of  sucking  his  teeth  at 
table.  When  this  wretch  was  not  writhing  in  the 

o 

agonies  of  sea- sickness,  he  was  on  deck  writh  his  com- 
rades, lecturing  them  upon  various  things,  to  which 
the  bloodless  young  man  listened  with  his  incredulous 
grin,  and  the  bearded  giant  in  spectacles  attended 
with  a  choked  look  about  the  eyes,  like  a  suffering 
ox.  They  were  constantly  staggering  in  and  out  of 
their  state-room,  which,  for  my  sins,  was  also  mine  ; 
and  opening  their  abominable  commodious  travelling 
bags,  or  brushing  their  shaggy  heads  at  the  reeling 
mirror,  and  since  they  were  born  into  the  world,  I 
think  they  had  never  cleaned  their  finger-nails. 
They  wore  their  hats  at  dinner,  but  always  went 
away,  after  soup,  deadly  pale. 


BY  SEA  FROM  GENOA  TO  NAPLES.       67 


II. 

IN  contrast  with  these  cattle,  what  polished  and 
courtly  gentlemen  were  the  sailors  and  firemen  !  As 
for  our  captain,  he  would  in  any  company  have  won 
notice  for  his  gentle  and  high-bred  way  ;  in  his  place 
at  the  head  of  the  table  among  these  Frenchmen,  he 
seemed  to  me  the  finest  gentleman  I  had  ever  seen. 
He  had  spent  his  whole  life  at  sea,  and  had  voyaged 
in  all  parts  of  the  world  except  Japan,  where  he 
meant  some  day,  he  said,  to  go.  He  had  been  first 
a  cabin-boy  on  a  little  Genoese  schooner,  and  he  had 
gradually  risen  to  the  first  place  on  a  sailing-vessel, 
and  now  he  had  been  selected  to  fill  a  commander's 
post  on  this  line  of  steamers.  (It  is  an  admirable  line 
of  boats,  not  belonging  I  believe  to  the  Italian  gov- 
ernment, but  much  under  its  control,  leaving  Genoa 
every  day  for  Leghorn,  Naples,  Palermo,  and  Ancona, 
on  the  Adriatic  coast.)  The  captain  had  sailed  a  good 
deal  in  American  waters,  but  chiefly  on  the  Pacific 
coast,  trading  from  the  Spanish  republican  ports  to 
those  of  California.  He  had  been  in  that  State  dur- 
ing its  effervescent  days,  when  every  thing  foul 
floated  to  the  top,  and  I  am  afraid  he  formed  there 
but  a  bad  opinion  of  our  people,  though  he  was  far 
too  courteous  to  say  outright  any  thing  of  this  sort. 

He  had  very  fine,  shrewd  blue  eyes,  a  lean,  weather- 
beaten,  kindly  face,  and  a  cautious  way  of  saying 
things.  I  hardly  expected  him  to  turn  out  so  red-hot 
a  Democrat  as  he  did  on  better  acquaintance,  but  being 


68  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

a  warm  friend  of  man  myself,  I  was  not  sorry.  Gar- 
ibaldi was  the  beginning  and  ending  of  his  political 
faith,  as  he  is  with  every  enthusiastic  Italian.  The 
honest  soul's  conception  of  all  concrete  evil  was 
brought  forth  in  two  words,  of  odd  enough  applica- 
tion. In  Europe,  and  Italy  more  particularly,  true 
men  have  suffered  chiefly  from  this  form  of  evil,  and 
the  captain  evidently  could  conceive  of  no  other  cause 
of  suffering  anywhere.  We  were  talking  of  the 
American  war,  and  when  the  captain  had  asked  the 
usual  question,  "  Quando  finird  mai  questa  guerra  ?  " 
and  I  had  responded  as  usual,  UA^,  ci  vuol  pazienza  /" 
the  captain  gave  a  heavy  sigh,  and  turning  his  head 
pensively  aside,  plucked  his  grapes  from  the  cluster  a 
moment  in  silence. 

Then  he  said  :  "  You  Americans  are  in  the  habit 
of  attributing  this  war  to  slavery.  The  cause  is  not 
sufficient." 

I  ventured  to  demur  and  explain.  "  No,"  said  the 
captain,  "  the  cause  is  not  sufficient.  We  Italians 
know  the  only  cause  which  could  produce  a  war  like 
this." 

I  was  naturally  anxious  to  be  instructed  in  the  Ital- 
ian theory,  hoping  it  might  be  profounder  than  the 
English  notion  that  we  were  fighting  about  tariffs. 

The  captain  frowned,  looked  at  me  carefully,  and 
then  said  :  — 

"  In  this  world  there  is  but  one  cause  of  mischief 
—  the  Jesuits." 


BY  SEA  FROM  GENOA  TO  NAPLES.       69 


III. 

THE  first  night  out,  from  Genoa  to  Leghorn,  was 
bad  enough,  but  that  which  succeeded  our  departure 
from  the  latter  port  was  by  far  the  worst  of  the  three 
we  spent  in  our  voyage  to  Naples.  How  we  envied 
the  happy  people  who  went  ashore  at  Leghorn  !  I 
think  we  even  envied  the  bones  of  the  Venetians, 
Pisans,  and  Genoese  who  met  and  slew  each  other 
in  the  long-forgotten  sea-fights,  and  sank  too  deeply 
through  the  waves  to  be  stirred  by  their  restless  tu- 
mult. Every  one  has  heard  tell  of  how  cross  and 
treacherous  a  sea  the  Mediterranean  is  in  winter,  and 
my  own  belief  is,  that  he  who  has  merely  been  sea- 
sick on  the  Atlantic  should  give  the  Mediterranean  a 
trial  before  professing  to  have  suffered  every  thing  of 
which  human  nature  is  capable.  Our  steamer  was 
clean  enough  and  staunch  enough,  but  she  was  not 
large  —  no  bigger,  I  thought,  than  a  gondola,  that 
night  as  the  waves  tossed  her  to  and  fro,  till  unwinged 
things  took  flight  all  through  her  cabins  and  over  her 
decks.  My  berth  was  placed  transversely  instead  of 
lengthwise  with  the  boat,  —  an  ingenious  arrange- 
ment to  heighten  sea-sick  horrors,  and  dash  the  blood 
of  the  sufferer  from  brain  to  boots  with  exaggerated 
violence  at  each  roll  of  the  boat ;  and  I  begged  the 
steward  to  let  me  sleep  upon  one  of  the  lockers  in  the 
cabin.  I  found  many  of  my  agonized  species  already 
laid  out  there  ;  and  the  misery  of  the  three  French 
commercial  travellers  was  so  great,  that,  in  the  excess 


70  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

of  my  own  dolor,  it  actually  afforded  me  a  kind  of 
happiness,  and  I  found  myself  smiling  at  times  to  see 
the  giant,  with  the  eyes  of  a  choked  ox,  rise  up  and 
faintly  bellow.  Indeed,  there  was  something  eldritch 
and  unearthly  in  the  whole  business,  and  I  think  a 
kind  of  delirium  must  have  resulted  from  the  sea-sick- 
ness. Otherwise,  I  shall  not  know  how  to  account  for 
having  attributed  a  kind  of  consciousness  and  individ- 
uality to  the  guide-book  of  a  young  American  who 
had  come  aboard  at  Leghorn.  He  turned  out  after- 
ward to  be  the  sweetest  soul  in  the  world,  and  I  am 
sorry  now  that  I  regarded  with  amusement  his  failure 
to  smoke  off  his  sickness.  He  was  reading  his  guide- 
book with  great  diligence  and  unconcern,  when  sud- 
denly I  marked  him  lay  it  softly,  softly  down,  with 
that  excessive  deliberation  which  men  use  at  such 
times,  and  vanish  with  great  dignity  from  the  scene. 
Thus  abandoned  to  its  own  devices,  this  guide-book 
began  its  night-long  riots,  setting  out  upon  a  tour  of 
the  cabin  with  the  first  lurch  of  the  boat  that  threw 
it  from  the  table  upon  the  floor.  I  heard  it  careen  at 
once  wildly  to  the  cabin  door,  and  knock  to  get  out ; 
and  failing  in  this,  return  more  deliberately  to  the 
stern  of  the  boat,  interrogating  the  tables  and  chairs, 
which  had  got  their  sea-legs  on,  and  asking  them  how 
they  found  themselves.  Arrived  again  at  the  point 
of  starting,  it  seemed  to  pause  a  moment,  and  then  I 
saw  it  setting  forth  on  a  voyage  of  pleasure  in  the 
low  company  of  a  French  hat,  which,  being  itself  a 
French  book,  I  suppose  it  liked.  In  these  travels 
they  both  ran  under  the  feet  of  one  of  the  stewards, 


BY  SEA  FROM  GENOA  TO  NAPLES.       71 

and  were  replaced  by  an  immense  tour  de  force  on 
the  table,  from  which  the  book  eloped  again,  —  this 
time  in  company  with  an  overcoat ;  but  it  seemed 
the  coat  was  too  miserable  to  go  far :  it  stretched  it- 
self at  full  length  on  the  floor,  and  suffered  the  book 
to  dance  over  it,  back  and  forth,  I  know  not  how 
many  times.  At  last,  as  the  actions  of  the  book  were 
becoming  unendurable,  and  the  general  sea-sickness 
was  waxing  into  a  frenzy,  a  heavy  roll,  that  made  the 
whole  ship  shriek  and  tremble,  threw  us  all  from  our 
lockers  ;  and  gathering  myself  up,  bruised  and  sore 
in  every  fibre,  I  lay  down  again  and  became  sensible 
of  a  blissful,  blissful  lull  ;  the  machinery  had  stopped, 
and  with  the  mute  hope  that  we  were  all  going  to  the 
bottom,  I  fell  tranquilly  asleep. 


IV. 

IT  appeared  that  the  storm  had  really  been  danger- 
ous. Instead  of  being  only  six  hours  from  Naples, 
as  we  ought  to  be  at  this  time,  we  were  got  no  fur- 
ther than  Porto  Longone,  in  the  Isle  of  Elba.  We 
woke  in  a  quiet,  sheltered  little  bay,  whence  we  could 
only  behold,  not  feel,  the  storm  left  far  out  upon  the 
open  sea.  From  this  we  turned  our  heavy  eyes 
gladly  to  the  shore,  where  a  white  little  town  was 
settled,  like  a  flight  of  gulls  upon  the  beach,  at  the 
feet  of  green  and  pleasant  hills,  whose  gentle  lines 
rhymed  softly  away  against  the  sky.  At  the  end  of 
either  arm  of  the  embracing  land  in  which  we  lay, 
stood  gray,  placid  old  forts,  with  peaceful  sentries 


72  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

pacing  their  bastions,  and  weary  ships  creeping  round 
their  feet,  under  guns  looking  out  so  kindly  and 

harmlessly,  that  I  think  General himself  would 

not  have  hesitated  (except,  perhaps,  from  a  profound 
sentiment  of  regret  for  offering  the  violence)  to  at- 
tack them.  Our  port  was  full  of  frightened  shipping 
—  steamers,  brigs,  and  schooners —  of  all  sizes  and 
nations  ;  and  since  it  was  our  misfortune  that  Napo- 
leon spent  his  exile  in  Elba  at  Porto  Ferrate  instead 
of  Porto  Longone,  we  amused  ourselves  with  looking 
at  the  vessels  and  the  white  town  and  the  soft  hills, 
instead  of  hunting  up  dead  lion's  tracks. 

Our  fellow-passengers  began  to  develop  themselves : 
the  regiment  of  soldiers  whom  we  were  transporting 
picturesquely  breakfasted  forward,  and  the  second- 
cabin  people  came  aft  to  our  deck,  while  the  English 
engineer  (there  are  English  engineers  on  all  the 
Mediterranean  steamers)  planted  a  camp-stool  in  a 
sunny  spot,  and  sat  down  to  read  the  "  Birmingham 
Express." 

Our  friends  of  the  second  cabin  were  chiefly  officers 
with  their  wives  and  families,  and  they  talked  for  the 
most  part  of  their  sufferings  during  the  night.  They 
spoke  such  exquisite  Italian  that  I  thought  them 
Tuscans,  but  they  told  me  they  were  of  Sicily,  where 
their  beautiful  speech  first  had  life.  Let  us  hear  what 
they  talked  of  in  their  divine  language,  and  with  that 
ineffable  tonic  accent  which  no  foreigner  perfectly 
acquires  ;  and  let  us  for  once  translate  the  profanities, 
Pagan  and  Christian,  which  adorn  common  parlance 
in  Italy :  — 


BY   SEA   FROM    GENOA   TO   NAPLES.  73 

"  Ah,  my  God !  how  much  I  suffered  !  "  says  a 
sweet  little  woman  with  gentle  brown  eyes,  red,  red 
lips,  and  blameless  Greek  lines  of  face.  "  I  broke 
two  basins  !  " 

"  There  were  ten  broken  in  all,  by  Diana  ! "  says 
this  lady's  sister. 

"  Presence  of  the  Devil !  "  says  her  husband  ;  and 

"  Body  of  Bacchus !  "  her  young  brother,  puffing 
his  cigar. 

"  And  you,  sir,"  said  the  lady,  turning  to  a  hand- 
some young  fellow  in  civil  dress,  near  her,  "  how  did 
you  pass  this  horrible  night  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  says  the  young  man,  twirling  his  heavy 
blond  mustache,  "  mighty  well,  mighty  well  !  " 

"  Oh  mercy  of  God  !     You  were  not  sick  ?  " 

"  I,  signora,  am  never  sea-sick.    I  am  of  the  navy." 

At  which  they  all  cry  oh,  and  ah,  and  declare  they 
are  glad  of  it,  though  why  they  should  have  been  I 
don't  know  to  this  day. 

"  I  have  often  wished,"  added  the  young  man 
meditatively,  and  in  a  serious  tone,  as  if  he  had 
indeed  given  the  subject  much  thought,  "  that  it 
might  please  God  to  let  me  be  sea-sick  once,  if  only 
that  I  might  know  how  it  feels.  But  no !  "  He 
turned  the  conversation,  as  if  his  disappointment  were 
too  sore  to  dwell  upon  ;  and  hearing  our  English,  he 
made  out  to  let  us  know  that  he  had  been  at  New 
York,  and  could  spik  our  language,  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  do,  to  the  great  pride  of  his  countrymen, 
and  our  own  astonishment  at  the  remarkable  forms 
of  English  speech  to  which  he  gave  utterance. 


74  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 


V. 

WE  set  out  from  Porto  Longone  that  night  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  next  evening,  driving  through  much- 
abated  storm  southward  into  calm  waters  and  clear 
skies,  reached  Naples.  At  noon,  Monte  Circeo, 
where  Circe  led  her  disreputable  life,  was  a  majestic 
rock  against  blue  heaven  and  broken  clouds  ;  after 
nightfall,  and  under  the  risen  moon,  Vesuvius  crept 
softly  up  from  the  sea,  and  stood  a  graceful  steep, 
with  wreaths  of  lightest  cloud  upon  its  crest,  and  the 
city  lamps  circling  far  round  its  bay. 


VII. 

CERTAIN    THINGS    IN    NAPLES. 

• 

I. 

PERHAPS  some  reader  of  mine  who  visited  Naples 
under  the  old  disorder  of  things,  when  the  Bourbon 
and  the  Camorra  reigned,  will  like  to  hear  that  the 
pitched  battle  which  travellers  formerly  fought,  in 
landing  from  their  steamer,  is  now  gone  out  of  fashion. 
Less  truculent  boatmen  I  never  saw  than  those  who 
rowed  us  ashore  at  Naples ;  they  were  so  quiet  and 
peaceful  that  they  harmonized  perfectly  with  that 
tranquil  scene  of  drowsy-twinkling  city  lights,  slum- 
brous mountains,  and  calm  sea,  and,  as  they  dipped 
softly  toward  us  in  the  glare  of  the  steamer's  lamps, 
I  could  only  think  of  Tennyson's  description  :  — 

"  And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  the  rosy  flame, 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  lotus-eaters  came." 

The  mystery  of  this  placidity  had  been  already  solved 
by  our  captain,  whom  I  had  asked  what  price  I 
should  bargain  to  pay  from  the  steamer  to  'the  shore. 
"  There  is  a  tariff,"  said  he,  "  and  the  boatmen  keep 
to  it.  The  Neapolitans  are  good  people,  (buona  gente,) 
and  only  needed  justice  to  make  them  obedient  to 
the  laws."  I  must  say  that  I  found  this  to  be  true. 


76  ITALIAN   JOUKNEYS. 

The  fares  of  all  public  conveyances  are  now  fixed, 
and  the  attempts  which  drivers  occasionally  make  to 
cheat  you,  seem  to  be  rather  the  involuntary  impulses 
of  old  habit  than  deliberate  intentions  to  do  you 
wrong.  You  pay  what  is  due,  and  as  your  man 
merely  rumbles  internally  when  you  turn  away,  you 
must  be  a  very  timid  signorin^  indeed,  if  you  buy  his 
content  with  any  thing  more.  I  fancy  that  all  these 
things  are  now  much  better  managed  in  Italy  than 
in  America,  only  we  grumble  at  them  there  and 
stand  them  in  silence  at  home.  Every  one  can  recall 
frightful  instances  of  plunder,  in  which  he  was  the 
victim,  at  New  York  —  in  which  the  robbery  had 
none  of  the  neatness  of  an  operation,  as  it  often  has 
in  Italy,  but  was  a  brutal  mutilation.  And  then  as 
regards  civility  from  the  same  kind  of  people  in  the 
two  countries,  there  is  no  comparison  that  holds  in 
favor  of  us.  All  questions  are  readily  and  politely 
answered  in  Italian  travel,  and  the  servants  of  com- 
panies are  required  to  be  courteous  to  the  public ; 
whereas,  one  is  only  too  glad  to  receive  a  silent  snub 
from  such  people  at  home. 


n. 

THE  first  sun  that  rose  after  our  arrival  in  Naples 
was  mild*and  warm  as  a  May  sun,  though  we  were 
quite  in  the  heart  of  November.  We  early  strolled 
out  under  it  into  the  crowded  ways  of  the  city,  and 
drew  near  as  we  might  to  that  restless,  thronging, 
gossiping  southern  life,  in  contrast  with  which  all 


CERTAIN   THINGS   IN   NAPLES.  77 

northern  existence  seems  only  a  sort  of  hibernation. 
The  long  Toledo,  on  which  the  magnificence  of  mod- 
ern Naples  is  threaded,  is  the  most  brilliant  and  joy- 
ous street  in  the  world ;  but  I  think  there  is  less  of 
the  quaintness  of  Italian  civilization  to  be  seen  in  its 
vivacious  crowds  than  anywhere  else  in  Italy.  One 
easily  understands  how,  with  its  superb  length  and 
straightness,  and  its  fine,  respectable,  commonplace- 
looking  houses,  it  should  be  the  pride  of  a  people 
fond  of  show ;  but  after  Venice  and  Genoa  it  has  no 
picturesque  charm ;  nay,  even  busy  Milan  seems  less 
modern  and  more  picturesque.  The  lines  of  the 
lofty  palaces  on  the  Toledo  are  seldom  broken  by 
the  facade  of  a  church  or  other  public  edifice  ;  and 
when  this  does  happen,  the  building  is  sure  to  be 
coldly  classic  or  frantically  baroque. 

You  weary  of  the  Toledo's  perfect  repair,  of  its 
monotonous  iron  balconies,  its  monotonous  lofty  win- 
dows ;  and  it  would  be  insufferable  if  you  could  not 
turn  out  from  it  at  intervals  into  one  of  those  won- 
drous little  streets  which  branch  up  on  one  hand  and 
down  on  the  other,  rising  and  falling  with  flights  of 
steps  between  the  high,  many-balconied  walls.  They 
ring  all  day  with  the  motley est  life  of  fishermen, 
fruit-venders,  chestnut-roasters,  and  idlers  of  every 
age  and  sex;  and  there  is  nothing  so  full  of  local 
color,  unless  it  be  the  little  up-and-down-hill  streets 
in  Genoa.  Like  those,  the  by-streets  of  Naples  are 
only  meant  for  foot-passengers,  and  a  carriage  never 
enters  them ;  but  sometimes,  if  you  are  so  blest,  you 
may -see  a  mule  climbing  the  long  stairways,  moving 


78  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

solemnly  under  a  stack  of  straw,  or  tinkling  gayly 
down-  stairs,  bestridden  by  a  swarthy,  handsome  peas- 
ant —  all  glittering  teeth  and  eyes  and  flaming 
Phrygian  cap.  The  rider  exchanges  lively  saluta- 
tions and  sarcasms  with  the  by-stariders  in  his  way, 
and  perhaps  brushes  against  the  bagpipers  who  bray 
constantly  in  those  hilly  defiles.  They  are  in  Neapol- 
itan costume,  these  pifferari,  and  have  their  legs  in- 
comprehensibly tied  up  in  the  stockings  and  garters 
affected  by  the  peasantry  of  the  provinces,  and  wear 
brave  red  sashes  about  their  waists.  They  are  sim- 
ple, harmless-looking  people,  and  would  no  doubt  rob 
and  kill  in  the  most  amiable  manner,  if  brigandage 
came  into  fashion  in  their  neighborhood. 

Sometimes  the  student  of  men  may  witness  a  Nea- 
politan quarrel  in  these  streets,  and  may  pick  up  use- 
ful ideas  of  invective  from  the  remarks  of  the  fat  old 
women  who  always  take  part  in  the  contests.  But, 
though  we  were  ten  days  in  Naples,  I  only  saw  one 
quarrel,  and  I  could  have  heard  much  finer  violence 
of  language  among  the  gondoliers  at  any  ferry  in 
Venice  than  I  heard  in  this  altercation. 

The  Neapolitans  are,  of  course,  furious  in  traffic. 
They  sell  a  great  deal,  and  very  boisterously,  the 
fruit  of  the  cactus,  which  is  about  as  large  as  an  egg, 
and  which  they  peel  to  a  very  bloody  pulp,  and  lay 
out,  a  sanguinary  presence,  on  boards  for  purchase. 
It  is  not  good  to  the  uncultivated  taste  ;  but  the 
stranger  may  stop  and  drink,  with  relish  and  refresh- 
ment, the  orangeade  and  lemonade  mixed  with  snow, 
and  sold  at  the  little  booths  on  the  street-corners. 


CERTAIN  THINGS   IN    NAPLES.  79 

These  stands  looks  much  like  the  shrines  of  the  Ma- 
donna in  other  Italian  cities,  and  a  friend  of  ours  was 
led,  before  looking  carefully  into  their  office,  to  argue 
immense  Neapolitan  piety  from  the  frequency  of  their 
ecclesiastical  architecture.  They  are,  indeed,  the 
shrines  of  a  god  much  worshiped  during  the  long 
Neapolitan  summers  ;  and  it  was  the  profound  theory 
of  the  Bourbon  kings  of  Naples,  that,  if  they  kept 
their  subjects  well  supplied  with  snow  to  cool  their 
drink,  there  was  no  fear  of  revolution.  It  shows 
how  liable  statesmen  are  to  err,  that,  after  all,  the 
Neapolitans  rose,  drove  out  the  Bourbons,  and  wel- 
comed Garibaldi. 

The  only  part  of  the  picturesque  life  of  the  side 
streets  which  seems  ever  to  issue  from  them  into  the 
Toledo  is  the  goatherd  with  his  flock  of  milch-goats, 
which  mingle  with  the  passers  in  the  avenues  as  fa- 
miliarly as  with  those  of  the  alley,  and  thrust  aside 
silk-hidden  hoops,  and  brush  against  dandies'  legs,  in 
their  course,  but  keep  on  perfect  terms  with  every 
body.  The  goatherd  leads  the  eldest  of  the  flock, 
and  the  rest  follow  in  docile  order  and  stop  as  he 
stops  to  ask  at  the  doors  if  milk  is  wanted.  When 
he  happens  to  have  an  order,  one  of  the  goats  is 
haled,  much  against  her  will,  into  the  entry  of  a 
house,  and  there  milked,  while  the  others  wait  out- 
side alone,  nibbling  and  smelling  thoughtfully  about 
the  masonry.  It  is  noticeable  that  none  of  the  good- 
natured  passers  seem  to  think  these  goats  a  great 
nuisance  in  the  crowded  street ;  but  all  make  way 
for  them  as  if  they  were  there  by  perfect  right,  and 
were  no  inconvenience. 


80  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

On  the  Toledo  people  keep  upon  the  narrow  side- 
walks, or  strike  out  into  the  carriage-way,  with  an 
indifference  to  hoofs  and  wheels  which  one,  after  long 
residence  in  tranquil  Venice,  cannot  acquire,  in  view 
of  the  furious  Neapolitan  driving.  That  old  compre- 
hensive gig  of  Naples,  with  which  many  pens  and 
pencils  have  familiarized  the  reader,  is  nearly  as  hard 
to  find  there  now  as  the  lazzaroni,  who  have  gone  out 
altogether.  You  may  still  see  it  in  the  remoter  quar- 
ters of  the  city,  with  its  complement  of  twelve  pas- 
sengers to  one  horse,  distributed,  two  on  each  thill, 
four  on  the  top  seats,  one  at  each  side,  and  two  be- 
hind ;  but  in  the  Toledo  it  has  given  place  to  much 
finer  vehicles.  Slight  buggies,  which  take  you  any- 
where for  half  a  franc,  are  the  favorite  means  of 
public  conveyance,  and  the  private  turn-outs  are  of 
eveiy  description  and  degree.  Indeed,  all  the  Nea- 
politans take  to  carriages,  and  the  Strand  in  London 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  is  not  a  greater  jam  of 
wheels  than  the  Toledo  in  the  afternoon.  Shopping 
feels  the  expansive  influence  of  the  out-of-doors  life, 
and  ladies  do  most  of  it  as  they  sit  in  their  open  car- 
riages at  the  shop-doors,  ministered  to  by  the  neat- 
handed  shopmen.  They  are  very  languid  ladies,  as 
they  recline  upon  their  carriage  cushions ;  they  are 
all  black-eyed,  and  of  an  olive  pallor,  and  have 
gloomy  rings  about  their  fine  eyes,  like  the  dark- 
faced  dandies  who  bow  to  them.  This  Neapolitan 
look  is  very  curious,  and  I  have  not  seen  it  elsewhere 
in  Italy  ;  it  is  a  look  of  peculiar  pensiveness,  and 
comes,  no  doubt,  from  the  peculiarly  heavy  growth 


CERTAIN  THINGS   IN  NAPLES.  81 

of  lashes  which  fringes  the  lower  eyelid.  Then  there 
is  the  weariness  in  it  of  all  peoples  whose  summers 
are  fierce  and  long. 

As  the  Italians  usually  dress  beyond  their  means, 
the  dandies  of  Naples  are  very  gorgeous.  If  it  is 
now,  say,  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  they  are  all 
coming  down  the  Toledo  with  the  streams  of  car- 
riages bound  for  the  long  drive  around  the  bay.  But 
our  foot-passers  go  to  walk  in  the  beautiful  Villa 
Reale,  between  this  course  and  the  sea.  The  Villa 
is  a  slender  strip  of  Paradise,  a  mile  long ;  it  is  rapt- 
ure to  walk  in  it,  and  it  comes,  in  description,  to 
be  a  garden-grove,  with  feathery  palms,  Greekish 
temples,  musical  fountains,  white  statues  of  the  gods, 
and  groups  of  fair  girls  in  spring  silks.  If  I  remem- 
ber aright,  the  sun  is  always  setting  on  the  bay, 
and  you  cannot  tell  whether  this  sunset  is  cooled 
by  the  water  or  the  water  is  warmed  by  the  golden 
light  upon  it,  and  upon  the  city,  and  upon  all  the 
soft  mountain-heights  around. 


in. 

WALKING  westward  through  the  whole  length  of 
the  Villa  Reale,  and  keeping  with  the  crescent  shore 
of  the  bay,  you  come,  after  a  while,  to  the  Grot  of 
Posilippo,  which  is  not  a  grotto  but  a  tunnel  cut  for 
a  carriage-way  under  the  hill.  It  serves,  however, 
the  purpose  of  a  grotto,  if  a  grotto  has  any,  and  is 
of  great  length  and  dimness,  and  is  all  a-twinkle 
night  and  day  with  numberless  lamps.  Overlooking 


82  ITALIAN    JOURNEYS. 

the  street  which  passes  into  it  is  the  tomb  of  Virgil, 
and  it  is  this  you  have  come  to  see.  To  reach  it, 
you  knock  first  at  the  door  of  a  blacksmith,  who 
calls  a  species  of,  custodian,  and,  when  this  latter  has 
opened  a  gate  in  a  wall,  you  follow  him  up-stairs  into 
a  market-garden. 

In  one  corner,  and  standing  in  a  leafy  and  grassy 
shelter  somewhat  away  from  the  vegetables,  is  the 
poet's  tomb,  which  has  a  kind  of  claim  to  genuine- 
ness by  virtue  of  its  improbable  appearance.  It  looks 
more  like  a  bake-oven  than  even  the  Pompeian  tombs  ; 
the  masonry  is  antique,  and  is  at  least  in  skillful  imi- 
tation of  the  fine  Roman  work.  The  interior  is  a 
small  chamber  with  vaulted  or  wagon-roof  ceiling, 
under  which  a  man  may  stand  upright,  and  at  the 
end  next  the  street  is  a  little  stone  commemorating 
the  place  as  Virgil's  tomb,  which  was  placed  there 
by  the  Queen  of  France  in  1840,  and  said  by  the 
custodian  (a  singularly  dull  ass)  to  be  an  exact  copy 
of  the  original,  whatever  the  original  may  have  been. 
This  guide  could  tell  us  nothing  more  about  it,  and 
was  too  stupidly  honest  to  pretend  to  know  more. 
The  laurel  planted  by  Petrarch  at  the  door  of  the 
tomb,  and  renewed  in  later  times  by  Casimir  Dela- 
vigne,  has  been  succeeded  by  a  third  laurel.  The 
present  twig  was  so  slender,  and  looked  so  friendless 
and  unprotected,  that  even  enthusiasm  for  the  mem- 
ory of  two  poets  could  not  be  brought  to  rob  it  of 
one  of  its  few  leaves ;  and  we  contented  ourselves 
with  plucking  some  of  the  grass  and  weeds  that  grew 
abundantly  on  the  roof  of  the  tomb. 


CERTAIN   THINGS   IN   NAPLES.  83 

There  was  a  dusty  quiet  within  the  tomb,  and  a 
grassy  quiet  without,  that  pleased  exceedingly  ;  but 
though  the  memories  of  the  place  were  so  high  and 
epic,  it  only  suggested  bucolic  associations,  and,  sunken 
into  that  nook  of  hill-side  verdure,  made  me  think  of  a 
spring-house  on  some  far-away  Ohio  farm  ;  a  thought 
that,  perhaps,  would  not  have  offended  the  poet,  who 
loved  and  sang  of  humble  country  things,  and,  draw- 
ing wearily  to  his  rest  here,  no  doubt  turned  and 
remembered  tenderly  the  rustic  days  before  the  ex- 
cellent veterans  of  Augustus  came  to  exile  him  from 
his  father's  farm  at  Mantua,  and  banish  him  to  mere 
glory.  But  I  believe  most  travellers  have  much 
nobler  sensations  in  Virgil's  tomb,  and  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  testimony  borne  to  their  lofty  sentiments 
on  every  scribbleable  inch  of  its  walls.  Valery  re- 
minded me  that  Boccaccio,  standing  near  it  of  old, 
first  felt  his  fate  decided  for  literature.  Did  he  come 
there,  I  wonder,  with  poor  Fiammetta,  and  enter  the 
tomb  with  her  tender  hand  in  his,  before  ever  he 
thought  of  that  cruel  absence  she  tells  of?  "O 
donne  pietose  !  "  I  hope  so,  and  that  this  pilgrimage, 
half  of  love  and  half  of  letters,  took  place,  "  nel 
tempo  nel  quale  la  rivestita  terra  piu  che  tutto  Faltro 
anno  si  mostra  bella." 

If  you  ascend  from  the  tomb  and  turn  Naples- 
ward  from  the  crest  of  the  hill,  you  have  the  loveli- 
est view  in  the  world  of  the  sea  and  of  the  crescent 
beach,  mightily  jeweled  at  its  further  horn  with  the 
black  Castel  delP  Ovo.  Fishermen's  children  are 
playing  all  along  the  foamy  border  of  the  sea,  and 


84  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

boats  are  darting  out  into  the  surf.  The  present 
humble  muse  is  not  above  saying  also  that  the  linen 
which  the  laundresses  hang  to  dry  upon  lines  along 
the  beach  takes  the  sun  like  a  dazzling  flight  of  white 
birds,  and  gives  a  breezy  life  to  the  scene  which  it 
could  not  spare. 


IV. 

THERE  was  a  little  church  on  our  way  back  from 
Posilippo,  into  which  we  lounged  a  moment,  ^pausing 
at  the  altar  of  some  very  successful  saint  near  the 
door.  Here  there  were  great  numbers  of  the  usual 
offerings  from  the  sick  whom  the  saint  had  eased  of 
their  various  ills,  —  waxen  legs  and  arms  from  people 
who  had  been  in  peril  of  losing  their  limbs,  as  well 
as  eyes,  noses,  fingers,  and  feet,  and  the  crutches  of 
those  cured  of  lameness  ;  but  we  were  most  amused 
with  the  waxen  effigies  of  several  entire  babies  hung 
up  about  the  altar,  which  the  poor  souls  who  had 
been  near  losing  the  originals  had  brought  there  in 
gratitude  to  the  saint. 

Generally,  however,  the  churches  of  Naples  are 
not  very  interesting,  and  one  who  came  away  with- 
out seeing  them  would  have  little  to  regret.  The 
pictures  are  seldom  good,  and  though  there  are  mag- 
nificent chapels  in  St.  Januarius,  and  fine  Gothic 
tombs  at  Santa  Chiara,  the  architecture  is  usually 
rococo.  I  fancy  that  Naples  has  felt  the  damage 
of  Spanish  taste  in  such  things  as  well  as  Spanish 
tyranny  in  others.  Indeed,  I  saw  much  there  which 


CERTAIN   THINGS   IN   NAPLES.  85 

reminded  me  of  what  I  had  read  about  Spain  rather 
than  what  I  had  seen  in  Italy  ;  and  all  Italian  writ- 
ers are  agreed  in  attributing  the  depravation  of  Na- 
ples to  the  long  Spanish  dominion.  It  is  well  known 
how  the  Spaniards  rule  their  provinces,  and  their 
gloomy  despotism  was  probably  never  more  cruelly 
felt  than  in  Italy,  where  the  people  were  least  able 
to  bear  it.  I  had  a  heart-felt  exultation  in  walking 
through  the  quarter  of  the  city  where  the  tumults 
of  Massaniello  had  raged,  and,  if  only  for  a  few  days, 
struck  mortal  terror  to  the  brutal  pride  of  the  vice- 
roy ;  but  I  think  I  had  a  better  sense  of  the  immense 
retribution  which  has  overtaken  all  memory  of  Span- 
ish rule  in  Naples  as  we  passed  through  the  palace 
of  Capo  di  Monte.  This  was  the  most  splendid  seat 
of  the  Spanish  Bourbon,  whose  family,  inheriting  its 
power  from  the  violence  of  other  times,  held  it  with 
violence  in  these  ;  and  in  one  of  the  chief  saloons 
of  the  palace,  which  is  now  Victor  Ernanuel's,  were 
pictures  representing  scenes  of  the  revolution  of 
1860,  while  the  statuette  of  a  Garibaldino,  in  his 
red  shirt  and  all  his  heroic  rudeness,  was  defiantly 
conspicuous  on  one  of  the  tables. 


v. 

THERE  was  nothing  else  that  pleased  me  as  well  in 
the  palace,  or  in  the  grounds  about  it.  These  are  all 
laid  out  in  pleasant  successions  of  grove,  tangled  wil- 
derness, and  pasture-land,  and  were  thronged,  the 
Saturday  afternoon  of  our  visit,  with  all  ranks  of 


86  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

people,  who  strolled  through  the  beautiful  walks  and 
enjoyed  themselves  in  the  peculiarly  peaceful  Italian 
way.  Valery  says  that  the  Villa  Reale  in  the  Bour- 
bon time  was  closed,  except  for  a  single  day  in  the 
year,  to  all  but  the  nobles  ;  and  that  on  this  occasion 
it  was  filled  with  pretty  peasant  women,  who  made  it 
a  condition  of  their  marriage  bargains  that  their  hus- 
bands should  bring  them  to  the  Villa  Reale  on  St. 
Mary's  Day.  It  is  now  free  to  all  on  every  day  of 
the  year,  and  the  grounds  of  the  Palace  Capo  di 
Monte  are  opened  every  Saturday.  I  liked  the 
pleasant  way  in  which  sylvan  Nature  and  Art  had 
made  friends  in  these  beautiful  grounds,  in  which 
Nature  had  consented  to  overlook  even  the  foolish 
vanity  of  the  long  aisles  of  lime,  cut  and  trimmed 
in  formal  and  fantastic  shapes,  according  to  the  taste 
of  the  silly  times  of  bagwigs  and  patches.  On  every 
side  wild  birds  fluttered  through  these  absurd  trees, 
and  in  the  thickets  lurked  innumerable  pheasants, 
which  occasionally  issued  forth  and  stalked  in  stately, 
fearless  groups  over  the  sunset-crimsoned  lawns. 
There  was  a  brown  gamekeeper  for  nearly  every 
head  of  game,  wearing  a  pheasant's  wing  in  his  hat 
and  carrying  a  short,  heavy  sword  ;  and  our  driver 
told  us,  with  an  awful  solemnity  in  his  bated  breath, 
that  no  one  might  kill  this  game  but  the  king,  under 
penalty  of  the  galleys. 


CERTAIN   THINGS   IN   NAPLES.  87 


VI. 

WE  went  one  evening  to  the  opera  at  San  Carlo. 
It  is  one  of  the  three  theatres  —  San  Carlo  of  Na- 
ples, La  Scala  of  Milan,  and  Fenice  of  Venice  — 
on  which  the  Italians  pride  themselves  ;  and  it  is 
certainly  very  large  and  imposing.  The  interior  has 
a  bel  colpo  d'occhio,  which  is  what  many  Italians 
chiefly  value  in  morals,  manners,  and  architecture  ; 
but  after  this  comes  great  shabbiness  of  detail.  The 
boxes,  even  of  the  first  order,  are  paved  with  brick 
tiles,  and  the  red  velvet  border  of  the  box  which  the 
people  see  from  the  pit  is  not  supported  in  style  by 
the  seats  within,  which  are  merely  covered  with  red 
oil-cloth.  The  opera  we  saw  was  also  second-rate, 
and  was  to  the  splendor  of  the  scenic  arrangements 
what  the  oil-cloth  was  to  the  velvet.  The  house  was 
full  of  people,  but  the  dress  of  the  audience  was  not 
so  fine  as  we  had  expected  in  Naples.  The  evening 
dress  is  not  de  rigueur  at  Italian  theatres,  and  people 
seemed  to  have  come  to  San  Carlo  in  any  pleasant 
carelessness  of  costume. 


VII. 

THE  Italians  are  simple  and  natural  folks,  pleased 
through  all  their  show  of  conventionality  with  little 
things,  and  as  easy  and  unconscious  as  children  in 
their  ways.  There  happened  to  be  a  new  caffe* 
opened  in  Naples  while  we  were  there,  and  we  had 


88  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  ranks  of  people  affected  by 
its  magnificence.  Artless  throngs  blocked  the  side- 
walk day  and  night  before  its  windows,  gazing  upon 
its  mirrors,  fountains,  and  frescos,  and  regarding  the 
persons  over  their  coffee  within  as  beings  lifted  by 
sudden  magic  out  of  the  common  orbit  of  life  and  set 
dazzling  in  a  higher  sphere.  All  the  waiters  were 
uniformed  and  brass-buttoned  to  blinding  effect,  and 
the  head  waiter  was  a  majestic  creature  in  a  long 
blue  coat  reaching  to  his  feet,  and  armed  with  a 
mighty  silver-headed  staff.  This  gorgeous  apparition 
did  nothing  but  walk  up  and  down,  and  occasionally 
advance  toward  the  door,  as  if  to  disperse  the  crowds. 
At  such  times,  however,  before  executing  his  pur- 
pose, he  would  glance  round  on  the  splendors  they 
were  admiring,  and,  as  if  smitten  with  a  sense  of  the 
enormous  cruelty  he  had  meditated  in  thinking  to 
deprive  them  of  the  sight,  would  falter  and  turn 
away,  leaving  his  intent  unfulfilled. 


VIII. 

A    DAY    IN    POMPEII. 


ON  the  second  morning  after  our  arrival  in  Na- 
ples, we  took  the  seven  o'clock  train,  which  leaves 
the  Nineteenth  Century  for  the  first  cycle  of  the 
Christian  Era,  and,  skirting  the  waters  of  the  Nea- 
politan bay  almost  the  whole  length  of  our  journey, 
reached  the  railway  station  of  Pompeii  in  an  hour. 
As  we  rode  along  by  that  bluest  sea,  we  saw  the 
fishing-boats  go  out,  and  the  foamy  waves  (which  it 
would  be  an  insolent  violence  to  call  breakers)  come 
in  ;  we  saw  the  mountains  slope  their  tawny  and 
golden  manes  caressingly  downward  to  the  waters, 
where  the  islands  were  dozing  yet ;  and  landward, 
on  the  left,  we  saw  Vesuvius,  with  his  brown  mantle 
of  ashes  drawn  close  about  his  throat,  reclining  on 
the  plain,  and  smoking  a  bland  and  thoughtful  morn- 
ing pipe,  of  which  the  silver  fumes  curled  lightly, 
lightly  upward  in  the  sunrise. 

We  dismounted  at  the  station,  walked  a  few  rods 
eastward  through  a  little  cotton-field,  and  found 
ourselves  at  the  door  of  Hotel  Diomed,  where  we 
took  breakfast  for  a  number  of  sesterces  which  I  am 
sure  it  would  have  made  an  ancient  Pompeian  stir 


90  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

in  Ins  urn  to  think  of  paying.  But  in  Italy  one 
learns  the  chief  Italian  virtue,  patience,  and  we  paid 
our  account  with  the  utmost  good  nature.  There 
was  compensation  in  store  for  us,  and  the  guide 
whom  we  found  at  the  gate  leading  up  the  little  hill 
to  Pompeii  inclined  the  disturbed  balance  in  favor  of 
our  happiness.  He  was  a  Roman,  spoke  Italian  that 
Beatrice  might  have  addressed  to  Dante,  and  was 
numbered  Twenty-six.  I  suppose  it  is  known  that 
the  present  Italian  Government  forbids  people  to  be 
pillaged  in  any  way  on  its  premises,  and  that  the 
property  of  the  State  is  no  longer  the  traffic  of  cus- 
todians and  their  pitiless  race.  At  Pompeii  each 
person  pays  two  francs  for  admission,  and  is  rigorously 
forbidden  by  recurrent  sign-boards  to  offer  money  to 
the  guides.  Ventisei  (as  we  shall  call  him)  himself 
pointed  out  one  of  these  notices  in  English,  and  did 
his  duty  faithfully  without  asking  or  receiving  fees  in 
money.  He  was  a  soldier,  like  all  the  other  guides, 
and  was  a  most  intelligent,  obliging  fellow,  with  a 
self-respect  and  dignity  worthy  of  one  of  our  own 
volunteer  soldiers. 

Ventisei  took  us  up  the  winding  slope,  and  led  us 
out  of  this  living  world  through  the  Sea-gate  of 
Pompeii  back  into  the  dead  past  —  the  past  which, 
with  all  its  sensuous  beauty  and  grace,  and  all  its 
intellectual  power,  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  dead,  and, 
for  the  most  part,  buried.  Our  feet  had  hardly 
trodden  the  lava  flagging  of  the  narrow  streets  when 
we  came  in  sight  of  the  laborers  who  were  exhuming 
the  inanimate  city.  They  were  few  in  number,  not 


A   DAY  IN   POMPEII.  91 

perhaps  a  score,  and  they  worked  .tediously,  with 
baskets  to  carry  away  the  earth  from  the  excavation, 
boys  and  girls  carrying  the  baskets,  and  several  ath- 
letic old  women  plying  picks,  while  an  overseer  sat 
in  a  chair  near  by,  and  smoked,  and  directed  their 
exertions. 

They  dig  down  about  eight  or  ten  feet,  uncovering 
the  walls  and  pillars  of  the  houses,  and  the  mason, 
who  is  at  hand,  places  little  iron  rivets  in  the  stucco 
to  prevent  its  fall  where  it  is  weak,  while  an  artist 
attends  to  wash  and  clean  the  frescos  as  fast  as  they 
are  exposed.  The  soil  through  which  the  excavation 
first  passes  is  not  of  great  depth  ;  the  ashes  which 
fell  damp  with  scalding  rain,  in  the  second  eruption, 
are  perhaps  five  feet  thick;  the  rest  is  of  that  porous 
stone  which  descended  in  small  fragments  during  the 
first  eruption.  A  depth  of  at  least  two  feet  in  this 
stone  is  always  left  untouched  by  the  laborers  till  the 
day  when  the  chief  superintendent  of  the  work  comes 
out  from  Naples  to  see  the  last  layers  removed  ;  and 
it  is  then  that  the  beautiful  mosaic  pavements  of  the 
houses  are  uncovered,  and  the  interesting  and  valu- 
able objects  are  nearly  always  found. 

The  wonder  was,  seeing  how  slowly  the  work  pro- 
ceeded, not  that  two  thirds  of  Pompeii  were  yet 
buried,  but  that  one  third  had  been  exhumed.  We 
left  these  hopeless  toilers,  and  went  down-town  into 
the  Forum,  stepping  aside  on  the  way  to  look  into 
one  of  the  Pompeian  Courts  of  Common  Pleas. 


92  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 


II. 

Now  Pompeii  is,  in  truth,  so  fall  of  marvel  and 
surprise,  that  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  express 
disappointment  with  Pompeii  in  fiction.  And  yet  1 
cannot  help  it.  An  exuberant  carelessness  of  phrase 
in  most  writers  and  talkers  who  describe  it  had  led 
me  to  expect  much  more  than  it  was  possible  to  find 
there.  In  my  Pompeii  I  confess  that  the  houses  had 
no  roofs  —  in  fact,  the  rafters  which  sustained  the 
tiles  being  burnt,  how  could  the  roofs  help  falling  in  ? 
But  otherwise  my  Pompeii  was  a  very  complete 
affair :  the  walls  all  rose  to  their  full  height ;  door- 
ways and  arches  were  perfect ;  the  columns  were  all 
unbroken  and  upright ;  putting  roofs  on  my  Pompeii, 
you  might  have  lived  in  it  very  comfortably.  The 
real  Pompeii  is  different.  It  is  seldom  that  any  wall 
is  unbroken  ;  most  columns  are  fragmentary ;  and 
though  the  ground-plans  are  always  distinct,  very  few 
rooms  in  the  city  are  perfect  in  form,  and  the  whole 
is  much  more  ruinous  than  I  thought. 

But  this  ruin  once  granted,  and  the  idle  disappoint- 
ment at  its  greatness  overcome,  there  is  endless  ma- 
terial for  study,  instruction,  and  delight.  It  is  the 
revelation  of  another  life,  and  the  utterance  of  the 
past  is  here  more  perfect  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
world.  Indeed,  I  think  that  the  true  friend  of  Pom- 
peii should  make  it  a  matter  of  conscience,  on  enter- 
ing the  enchanted  city,  to  cast  out  of  his  knowledge 
all  the  rubbish  that  has  fallen  into  it  from  novels  and 


A   DAY  IN   POMPEII.  93 

travels,  and  to  keep  merely  the  facts  of  the  town's 
luxurious  life  and  agonizing  death,  with  such  inci- 
dents of  the  eruption  as  he  can  remember  from  the 
description  of  Pliny.  These  are  the  spells  to  which 
the  sorcery  yields,  and  with  these  in  your  thought 
you  can  rehabilitate  the  city  until  Ventisei  seems  to 
be  a  valet  de  place  of  the  fiirst  century,  and  your- 
selves a  set  of  blond  barbarians  to  whom  he  is  show- 
ing off  the  splendors  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
towns  of  the  empire  of  Titus.  Those  sad  furrows 
in  the  pavement  become  vocal  with  the  joyous  rattle 
of  chariot-wheels  on  a  sudden,  and  you  prudently 
step  up  on  the  narrow  sidewalks  and  rub  along  by 
the  little  shops  of  wine,  and  grain,  and  oil,  with 
which  the  thrifty  voluptuaries  of  Pompeii  flanked 
their  street-doors.  The  counters  of  these  shops  run 
across  their  fronts,  and  are  pierced  with  round  holes 
on  the  top,  through  which  you  see  dark  depths  of 
oil  in  the  jars  below,  and  not  sullen  lumps  of  ashes  ; 
those  stately  amphorae  behind  are  full  of  wine,  and  in 
the  corners  are  bags  of  wheat. 

"  This  house,  with  a  shop  on  either  side,  whose  is 
it,  XXVI.  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  house  of  the  great  Sallust,  my  masters. 
"Would  you  like  his  autograph  ?  I  know  one  of  his 
slaves  who  would  sell  it." 

You  are  a  good  deal  stared  at,  naturally,  as  you 
pass  by,  for  people  in  Pompeii  have  not  much  to  do, 
and,  besides,  a  Briton  is  not  an  every- day  sight  there, 
as  he  will  be  one  of  these  centuries.  The  skins  of 
wild  beasts  are  little  worn  in  Pompeii ;  and  those 


94  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

bold-eyed  Roman  women  think  it  rather  odd  that  we 
should  like  to  powder  our  shaggy  heads  with  brick- 
dust.  However,  these  are  matters  of  taste.  We, 
for  our  part,  cannot  repress  a  feeling  of  disgust  at 
the  loungers  in  the  street,  who,  XXVI.  tells  us,  are 
all  going  to  soak  themselves  half  the  day  in  the 
baths  yonder  ;  for,  if  there  is  in  Pompeii  one  thing 
more  offensive  than  another  to  our  savage  sense  of 
propriety,  it  is  the  personal  cleanliness  of  the  inhab- 
itants. We  little  know  what  a  change  for  the  better 
will  be  wrought  in  these  people  with  the  lapse  of 
time,  and  that  they  will  yet  come  to  wash  themselves 
but  once  a  year,  as  we  do. 

(The  reader  may  go  on  doing  this  sort  of  thing 
at  some  length  for  himself;  and  may  imagine,  if  he 
pleases,  a  boastful  conversation  among  the  Pompeians 
at  the  baths,  in  which  the  barbarians  hear  how  Agric- 
ola  has  broken  the  backbone  of  a  rebellion  in  Brit- 
ain ;  and  in  which  all  the  speakers  begin  their  ob- 
servations with  "  Ho  !  my  Lepidus  !  "  and  "  Ha  ! 
my  Diomed  ! "  In  the  mean  time  we  return  to  the 
present  day,  and  step  down  the  Street  of  Plenty 
along  with  Ventisei.) 


in. 

IT  is  proper,  after  seeing  the  sites  of  some  of  the 
principal  temples  in  Pompeii  (such  as  those  of  Jupi- 
ter and  Venus),  to  cross  the  fields  that  cover  a  great 
breadth  of  the  buried  citv,  and  look  into  the  amphi- 
theatre, where,  as  every  body  knows,  the  lions  had 


A    DAY   IN   POMPEII.  95 

no  stomach  for  Glaucus  on  the  morning  of  the  fatal 
eruption.  The  fields  are  now  planted  with  cotton, 
and  of  course  we  thought  those  commonplaces  about 
the  wonder  the  Pompeians  would  feel  could  they 
come  back  to  see  that  New- World  plant  growing 
above  their  buried  homes.  We  might  have  told 
them,  the  day  of  our  visit,  that  this  cruel  plant,  so 
long  watered  with  the  tears  of  slaves,  and  fed  with 
the  blood  of  men,  was  now  an  exile  from  its  native 
fields,  where  war  was  plowing  with  sword  and  shot 
the  guilty  land,  and  rooting  up  the  subtlest  fibres  of 
the  oppression  in  which  cotton  had  grown  king.  And 
the  ghosts  of  wicked  old  Pompeii,  remembering  the 
manifold  sins  that  called  the  fires  of  hell  to  devour 
her,  and  thinking  on  this  exiled  plant,  the  latest  wit- 
ness of  God's  unforgetting  justice,  might  well  have 
shuddered,  through  all  their  shadow,  to  feel  how 
terribly  He  destroys  the  enemies  of  Nature  and  man. 
But  the  only  Pompeian  presences  which  haunted 
our  passage  of  the  cotton-field  were  certain  small 

"  Phantoms  of  delight," 

with  soft  black  eyes  and  graceful  ways,  who  ran 
before  us  and  plucked  the  bolls  of  the  cotton  and 
sold  them  to  us.  Embassies  bearing  red  and  white 
grapes  were  also  sent  out  of  the  cottages  to  our  ex- 
cellencies ;  and  there  was  some  doubt  of  the  cur- 
rency of  the  coin  which  we  gave  these  poor  children 
in  return. 

There  are  now  but  few  peasants  living  on  the  land 
over  the  head  of  Pompeii,  and  the  Government  al- 


96  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

lows  no  sales  of  real  estate  to  be  made  except  to 
itself.  The  people  who  still  dwell  here  can  hardly 
be  said  to  own  their  possessions,  for  they  are  merely 
allowed  to  cultivate  the  soil.  A  guard  stationed 
night  and  day  prevents  them  from  making  excava- 
tions, and  they  are  severely  restricted  from  entering 
the  excavated  quarters  of  the  city  alone. 

The  cotton  whitens  over  two  thirds  of  Pompeii  yet 
interred :  happy  the  generation  that  lives  to  learn 
the  wondrous  secrets  of  that  sepulchre  !  For,  when 
you  have  once  been  at  Pompeii,  this  phantasm  of  the 
past  takes  deeper  hold  on  your  imagination  than  any 
living  city,  and  becomes  and  is  the  metropolis  of  your 
dreamland  forever.  O  marvelous  city  !  who  shall 
reveal  the  cunning  of  your  spell?  Something  not 
death,  something  not  life  —  something  that  is  the  one 
when  you  turn  to  determine  its  essence  as  the  other ! 
What  is  it  comes  to  me  at  this  distance  of  that  which 
I  saw  in  Pompeii?  The  narrow  and  curving,  but 
not  crooked  streets,  with  the  blazing  sun  of  that  Nea- 
politan November  falling  into  them,  or  clouding  their 
wheel-worn  lava  with  the  black,  black  shadows  of  the 
many-tinted  walls  ;  the  houses,  and  the  gay  columns 
of  white,  yellow,  and  red ;  the  delicate  pavements  of 
mosaic  ;  the  skeletons  of  dusty  cisterns  and  dead  foun- 
tains ;  inanimate  garden  spaces  with  pygmy  statues 
suited  to  their  littleness ;  suites  of  fairy  bed-cham- 
bers, painted  with  exquisite  frescos ;  dining  -  halls 
with  joyous  scenes  of  hunt  and  banquet  on  their 
walls ;  the  ruinous  sites  of  temples ;  the  melancholy 
emptiness  of  booths  and  shops  and  jolly  drinking- 


A   DAY  IN   POMPEII.  97 

houses ;  the  lonesome  tragic  theatre,  with  a  modern 
Pompeian  drawing  water  from  a  well  there  ;  the  baths 
with  their  roofs  perfect  yet,  and  the  stucco  bass-reliefs 
all  but  unharmed ;  around  the  whole,  the  city  wall 
crowned  with  slender  poplars  ;  outside  the  gates,  the 
long  avenue  of  tombs,  and  the  Appian  Way  stretch- 
ing on  to  Stabias ;  and,  in  the  distance,  Vesuvius, 
brown  and  bare,  with  his  fiery  breath  scarce  visible 
against  the  cloudless  heaven  ;  —  these  are  the  things 
that  float  before  my  fancy  as  I  turn  back  to  look  at 
myself  walking  those  enchanted  streets,  and  to  won- 
der if  I  could  ever  have  been  so  blest. 

For  there  is  nothing  on  the  earth,  or  under  it,  like 
Pompeii. 

The  amphitheatre,  to  which  we  came  now,  after 
our  stroll  across  the  cotton-fields,  was  small,  like  the 
vastest  things  in  Pompeii,  and  had  nothing  of  the 
stately  magnificence  of  the  Arena  at  Verona,  nor 
any  thing  of  the  Roman  Coliseum's  melancholy  and 
ruinous  grandeur.  But  its  littleness  made  it  all  the 
more  comfortable  and  social,  and,  seated  upon  its 
benches  under  a  cool  awning,  one  could  have  almost 
chatted  across  the  arena  with  one's  friends ;  could 
have  witnessed  the  spectacle  on  the  sands  without 
losing  a  movement  of  the  quick  gladiators,  or  an 
agony  of  the  victim  given  to  the  beasts  —  which  must 
have  been  very  delightful  to  a  Pompeian  of  compan- 
ionable habits  and  fine  feelings.  It  is  quite  impossi- 
ble, however,  that  the  bouts  described  by  Bulwer  as 
taking  place  all  at  the  same  time  on  the  arena  should 
really  have  done  so :  the  combatants  would  have 


98  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

rolled  and  tumbled  and  trampled  over  each  other  an 
hundred  times  in  the  narrow  space. 

Of  all  the  voices  with  which  it  once  rang  the  poor 
little  amphitheatre  has  kept  only  an  echo.  But  this 
echo  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  ever  heard :  prompt, 
clear,  startling,  it  blew  back  the  light  chaff  we  threw 
to  it  with  amazing  vehemence,  and  almost  made  us 
doubt  if  it  were  not  a  direct  human  utterance.  Yet 
how  was  Ventisei  to  know  our  names  ?  And  there 
was  no  one  else  to  call  them  but  ourselves.  Our 
"  dolce  duca "  gathered  a  nosegay  from  the  crum- 
bling ledges,  and  sat  down  in  the  cool  of  the  once- 
cruel  cells  beneath,  and  put  it  prettily  together  for 
the  ladies.  When  we  had  wearied  ourselves  with 
the  echo  he  arose  and  led  us  back  into  Pompeii. 


IV. 

THE  plans  of  nearly  all  the  houses  in  the  city  are 
alike  :  the  entrance-room  next  the  door  ;  the  parlor 
or  drawing-room  next  that ;  then  the  impluviwm,  or 
unroofed  space  in  the  middle  of  the  house,  where  the 
rains  were  caught  and  drained  into  the  cistern,  and 
where  the  household  used  to  come  to  wash  itself, 
primitively,  as  at  a  pump  ;  the  little  garden,  with  its 
painted  columns,  behind  the  impluvium,  and,  at  last, 
the  dining-room.  There  are  minute  bed-chambers 
on  either  side,  and,  as  I  said,  a  shop  at  one  side  in 
front,  for  the  sale  of  the  master's  grain,  wine,  and 
oil.  The  pavements  of  all  the  houses  are  of  mosaic, 
which,  in  the  better  sort,  is  very  delicate  and  beauti- 


A   DAY   IN   POMPEII.  99 

ful,  and  is  found  sometimes  perfectly  uninjured.  An 
exquisite  pattern,  often  repeated,  is  a  ground  of  tiny 
cubes  of  white  marble  with  dots  of  black  dropped  reg- 
ularly into  it.  Of  course  there  were  many  pictur- 
esque and  fanciful  designs,  of  which  the  best  have 
been  removed  to  the  Museum  in  Naples  ;  but  sev- 
eral good  ones  are  still  left,  and  (like  that  of  the 
Wild  Boar)  give  names  to  the  houses  in  which 
they  are  found. 

But,  after  all,  the  great  wonder,  the  glory,  of  these 
Pompeian  houses  is  in  their  frescos.  If  I  tried  to 
give  an  idea  of  the  luxury  of  color  in  Pompeii,  the 
most  gorgeous  adjectives  would  be  as  poorly  able  to 
reproduce  a  vivid  and  glowing  sense  of  those  hues 
as  the  photography  which  now  copies  the  drawing 
of  the  decorations  ;  so  I  do  not  try. 

I  know  it  is  a  cheap  and  feeble  thought,  and  yet, 
let  the  reader  please  to  consider  :  A  workman  nearly 
two  thousand  years  laying  upon  the  walls  those  soft 
lines  that  went  to  make  up  fauns  and  satyrs,  nymphs 
and  naiads,  heroes  and  gods  and  goddesses ;  and  get- 
ting weary  and  lying  down  to  sleep,  and  dreaming 
of  an  eruption  of  the  mountain  ;  of  the  city  buried 
under  a  fiery  hail,  and  slumbering  in  its  bed  of  ashes 
seventeen  centuries  ;  then  of  its  being  slowly  ex- 
humed, and,  after  another  lapse  of  years,  of  some  one 
coming  to  gather  the  shadow  of  that  dreamer's  work 
upon  a  plate  of  glass,  that  he  might  infinitely  repro- 
duce it  and  sell  it  to  tourists  at  from  five  francs  to 
fifty  centimes  a  copy  —  I  say,  consider  such  a  dream, 
dreamed  in  the  hot  heart  of  the  day,  after  certain 


100  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

cups  of  Vesuvian  wine !  What  a  piece  of  Katzen- 
jammer  (I  can  use  no  milder  term)  would  that  work- 
man think  it  when  he  woke  again  !  Alas  !  what  is 
history  and  the  progress  of  the  arts  and  sciences  but 
one  long  Katzen yammer  ! 

Photography  cannot  give,  any  more  than  I,  the 
colors  of  the  frescos,  but  it  can  do  the  drawing  better, 
and,  I  suspect,  the  spirit  also.  I  used  the  word  work- 
man, and  not  artist,  in  speaking  of  the  decoration 
of  the  walls,  for  in  most  cases  the  painter  was  only 
an  artisan,  and  did  his  work  probably  by  the  yard,  as 
the  artisan  who  paints  walls  and  ceilings  in  Italy  does 
at  this  day.  But  the  old  workman  did  his  work 
much  more  skillfully  and  tastefully  than  the  modern 
—  threw  on  expanses  of  mellow  color,  delicately 
paneled  off  the  places  for  the  scenes,  and  penciled 
in  the  figures  and  draperies  (there  are  usually  more 
of  the  one  than  the  other)  with  a  deft  hand.  Of 
course,  the  houses  of  the  rich  were  adorned  by  men 
of  talent ;  but  it  is  surprising  to  see  the  community 
of  thought  and  feeling  in  all  this  work,  whether  it  be 
from  cunninger  or  clumsier  hands.  The  subjects  are 
nearly  always  chosen  from  the  fables  of  the  gods,  and 
they  are  in  illustration  of  the  poets,  Homer  and  the 
rest.  To  suit  that  soft,  luxurious  life  which  people 
led  in  Pompeii,  the  themes  are  commonly  amorous, 
and  sometimes  not  too  chaste  ;  there  is  much  of  Bac- 
chus and  Ariadne,  much  of  Venus  and  Adonis,  and 
Diana  bathes  a  good  deal  with  her  nymphs,  —  not  to 
mention  frequent  representations  of  the  toilet  of  that 
beautiful  monster  which  the  lascivious  art  of  the  time 


A  DAY  IN    POMPEII.  101 

loved  to  depict.  One  of  the  most  pleasing  of  all  the 
scenes  is  that  in  one  of  the  houses,  of  the  Judgment 
of  Paris,  in  which  the  shepherd  sits  upon  a  bank 
in  an  attitude  of  ineffable  and  flattered  importance, 
with  one  leg  carelessly  crossing  the  other,  and  both 
hands  resting  lightly  on  his  shepherd's  crook,  while 
the  goddesses  before  him  await  his  sentence.  Nat- 
urally the  painter  has  done  his  best  for  the  victress 
in  this  rivalry,  and  you  see 

"  Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful," 

as  she  should  be,  but  with  a  warm  and  piquant  spice 
of  girlish  resentment  in  her  attitude,  that  Paris  should 
pause  for  an  instant,  which  is  altogether  delicious. 

"  And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes." 

Awful  eyes !  How  did  the  painter  make  them  ?  The 
wonder  of  all  these  pagan  frescos  is  the  mystery  of 
the  eyes  —  still,  beautiful,  unhuman.  You  cannot  be- 
lieve that  it  is  wrong  for  those  tranquil-eyed  men  and 
women  to  do  evil,  they  look  so  calm  and  so  uncon- 
scious in  it  all ;  and  in  the  presence  of  the  celestials, 
as  they  bend  upon  you  those  eternal  orbs,  in  whose 
regard  you  are  but  a  part  of  space,  you  feel  that  here 
art  has  achieved  the  unearthly.  I  know  of  no  words 
in  literature  which  give  a  sense  (nothing  gives  the 
idea)  of  the  stare  of  these  gods,  except  that  magnifi- 
cent line  of  Kingsley's,  describing  the  advance  over 
the  sea  toward  Andromeda  of  the  oblivious  and  un- 
sympathizing  Nereids.  They  floated  slowly  up,  and 
their  eyes 

"  Stared  on  her,  silent  and  still,  like  the  eyes  in  the  house  of  the 
idols." 


102  ITALIAN  JOUKNEYS. 

The  colors  of  this  fresco  of  the  Judgment  of 
Paris  are  still  so  fresh  and  bright,  that  it  photographs 
very  well,  but  there  are  other  frescos  wherein  there 
is  more  visible  perfection  of  line,  but  in  which  the 
colors  are  so  dim  that  they  can  only  be  reproduced 
by  drawings.  One  of  these  is  the  Wounded  Adonis 
cared  for  by  Venus  and  the  Loves  ;  in  which  the 
story  is  treated  with  a  playful  pathos  wonderfully 
charming.  The  fair  boy  leans  in  the  languor  of  his 
hurt  toward  Venus,  who  sits  utterly  disconsolate  be- 
side him,  while  the  Cupids  busy  themselves  with  such 
slight  surgical  offices  as  Cupids  may  render :  one  pre- 
pares a  linen  bandage  for  the  wound,  another  wraps 
it  round  the  leg  of  Adonis,  another  supports  one  of 
his  heavy  arms,  another  finds  his  own  emotions  too 
much  for  him  and  pauses  to  weep.  It  is  a  pity  that 
the  colors  of  this  beautiful  fresco  are  grown  so  dim, 
and  a  greater  pity  that  most  of  the  other  frescos  in 
Pompeii  must  share  its  fate,  and  fade  away.  The 
hues  are  vivid  when  the  walls  are  first  uncovered, 
and  the  ashes  washed  from  the  pictures,  but  then  the 
malice  of  the  elements  begins  anew,  and  rain  and  sun 
draw  the  life  out  of  tints  which  the  volcano  failed  to 
obliterate.  In  nearly  all  cases  they  could  be  pre- 
served by  throwing  a  roof  above  the  walls,  and  it  is 
a  wonder  that  the  Government  does  not  take  this 
slight  trouble  to  save  them. 

Among  the  frescos  which  told  no  story  but  their 
own,  we  were  most  pleased  with  one  in  a  delicately 
painted  little  bed  -  chamber.  This  represented  an 
alarmed  and  furtive  man,  whom  we  at  once  pro- 


A   DAY  IN   POMPEII.  103 

nounced  The  Belated  Husband,  opening  a  door  with 
a  night-latch.  Nothing  could  have  been  better  than 
this  miserable  wretch's  cowardly  haste  and  cautious 
noiselessness  in  applying  his  key ;  apprehension  sat 
upon  his  brow,  confusion  dwelt  in  his  guilty  eye. 
He  had  been  out  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
electioneering  for  Pansa,  the  friend  of  the  people 
("  Pansa,  and  Roman  gladiators,"  "  Pansa,  and 
Christians  to  the  Beasts,"  was  the  platform),  and  he 
had  left  his  placens  uxor  at  home  alone  with  the 
children,  and  now  within  this  door  that  placens  uxor 
awaited  him  ! 

v. 

You  have  read,  no  doubt,  of  their  discovering,  a 
year  or  two  since,  in  making  an  excavation  in  a 
Pompeian  street,  the  molds  of  four  human  bodies, 
three  women  and  a  man,  who  fell  down,  blind  and 
writhing,  in  the  storm  of  fire  eighteen  hundred  years 
ago  ;  whose  shape  the  settling  and  hardening  ashes 
took ;  whose  flesh  wasted  away,  and  whose  bones  lay 
there  in  the  hollow  of  the  matrix  till  the  cunning  of 
this  time  found  them,  and,  pouring  liquid  plaster 
round  the  skeletons,  clothed  them  with  human  form 
again,  and  drew  them  forth  into  the  world  once  more. 
There  are  many  things  in  Pompeii  which  bring  back 
the  gay  life  of  the  city,  but  nothing  which  so  vividly 
reports  the  terrible  manner  of  her  death  as  these  effi- 
gies of  the  creatures  that  actually  shared  it.  The 
man  in  the  last  struggle  has  thrown  himself  upon  his 
back,  and  taken  his  doom  sturdily  —  there  is  a  sub- 


104  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

lime  calm  in  his  rigid  figure.  The  women  lie  upon 
their  faces,  their  limbs  tossed  and  distorted,  their 
drapery  tangled  and  heaped  about  them,  and  in 
every  fibre  you  see  how  hard  they  died.  One  presses 
her  face  into  her  handkerchief  to  draw  one  last 
breath  unmixed  with  scalding  steam  ;  another's  arms 
are  wildly  thrown  abroad  to  clutch  at  help ;  another's 
hand  is  appealingly  raised,  and  on  .her  slight  fingers 
you  see  the  silver  hoops  with  which  her  poor  dead 
vanity  adorned  them. 

The  guide  takes  you  aside  from  the  street  into  the 
house  where  they  lie,  and  a  dreadful  shadow  drops 
upon  your  heart  as  you  enter  their  presence.  With- 
out, the  hell-storm  seems  to  fall  again,  and  the  whole 
sunny  plain  to  be  darkened  with  its  ruin,  and  the  city 
to  send  up  the  tumult  of  her  despair. 

What  is  there  left  in  Pompeii  to  speak  of  after 
this  ?  The  long  street  of  tombs  outside  the  walls  ? 
Those  that  died  before  the  city's  burial  seem  to  have 
scarcely  a  claim  to  the  solemnity  of  death. 

Shall  we  go  see  Diomed's  Villa,  and  walk  through 
the  freedman's  long  underground  vaults,  where  his 
friends  thought  to  be  safe,  and  were  smothered  in 
heaps?  The  garden-ground  grows  wild  among  its 
broken  columns  with  weeds  and  poplar  saplings  ;  in 
one  of  the  corridors  they  sell  photographs,  on  which, 
if  you  please,  Ventisei  has  his  bottle,  or  drink- 
money.  So  we  escape  from  the  doom  of  the  ca- 
lamity, and  so,  at  last,  the  severely  forbidden  buona- 
mano  is  paid.  A  dog  may  die  many  deaths  besides 
choking  with  butter. 


A   DAY  IN   POMPEII.  105 

We  return  slowly  through  the  city,  where  we  have 
spent  the  whole  day,  from  nine  till  four  o'clock.  "We 
linger  on  the  way,  imploring  Ventisei  if  there  is 
not  something  to  be  seen  in  this  or  that  house ;  we 
make  our  weariness  an  excuse  for  sitting  down,  and 
cannot  rend  ourselves  from  the  bliss  of  being  in 
Pompeii. 

At  last  we  leave  its  gates,  and  swear  each  other  to 
come  again  many  times  while  in  Naples,  and  never 
go  again. 

Perhaps  it  was  as  well.  You  cannot  repeat  great 
happiness. 


IX. 

A     HALF-HOUR     AT     HERCULANEUM. 
I. 

THE  road  from  Naples  to  Herculaneum  is,  in  fact, 
one  long  street ;  it  hardly  ceases  to  be  city  in  Naples 
till  it  is  town  at  Portici,  and  in  the  interval  it  is 
suburb,  running  between  palatial  lines  of  villas, 
which  all  have  their  names  ambitiously  painted  over 
their  doors.  Great  part  of  the  distance  this  street  is 
bordered  by  the  bay,  and,  as  far  as  this  is  the  case,  it 
is  picturesque,  as  every  thing  is  belonging  to  marine 
life  in  Italy.  Sea-faring  people  go  lounging  up  and 
down  among  the  fishermen's  boats  drawn  up  on  the 
shore,  and  among  the  fishermen's  wives  making  nets, 
while  the  fishermen's  children  play  and  clamber 
everywhere,  and  over  all  flap  and  flutter  the  clothes 
hung  on  poles  to  dry.  In  this  part  of  the  street 
there  are,  of  course,  oysters,  and  grapes,  and  oranges, 
and  cactus-pulps,  and  cutlery,  and  iced  drinks  to  sell 
at  various  booths ;  and  Commerce  is  exceedingly 
dramatic  and  boisterous  over  the  bargains  she  of- 
fers ;  and  equally,  of  course,  murderous  drinking 
shops  lurk  at  intervals  along  the  pavement,  and  lure 
into  their  recesses  mariners  of  foreign  birth,  briefly 
ashore  from  their  ships.  The  New  York  Coffee 


A   HALF-HOUR  AT   HERCULANEUM.  107 

House  is  there  to  attract  my  maritime  fellow-coun- 
trymen, and  I  know  that  if  I  look  into  that  place 
of  refreshment  I  shall  see  their  honest,  foolish  faces 
flushed  with  drink,  and  with  the  excitement  of  buy- 
ing the  least  they  can  for  the  most  money.  Poor 
souls  !  they  shall  drink  that  pleasant  morning  away 
in  the  society  of  Antonino  the  best  of  Neapolitans, 
and  at  midnight,  emptied  of  every  soldo,  shall  arise, 
wrung  with  a  fearful  suspicion  of  treachery,  and  wan- 
der away  under  Antonino's  guidance  to  seek  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Consul ;  or,  taking  the  law  into  their 
own  hands,  shall  proceed  to  clean  out,  more  Ameri- 
cano, the  New  York  Coffee  House,  when  Antonino 
shall  develop  into  one  of  the  landlords,  and  deal  them 
the  most  artistic  stab  in  Naples :  handsome,  worthy 
Antonino  ;  tender-eyed,  subtle,  pitiless  ! 

n. 

WHERE  the  road  to  Herculaneum  leaves  the  bay 
and  its  seafaring  life,  it  enters,  between  the  walls  of 
lofty,  fly-blown  houses,  a  world  of  maccaroni  haunted 
by  foul  odors,  beggars,  poultry,  and  insects.  There 
were  few  people  to  be  seen  on  the  street,  but  through 
the  open  doors  of  the  lofty  fly-blown  houses  we  saw 
floury  legions  at  work  making  maccaroni ;  grinding 
maccaroni,  rolling  it,  cutting  it,  hanging  it  in  mighty 
skeins  to  dry,  and  gathering  it  when  dried,  and  put- 
ting it  away.  By  the  frequency  of  the  wine-shops 
we  judged  that  the  legions  were  a  thirsty  host,  and 
by  the  number  of  the  barber-surgeons'  shops,  that 


108  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

they  were  a  plethoric  and  too  full-blooded  host.  The 
latter  shops  were  in  the  proportion  of  one  to  five  of 
the  former ;  and  the  artist  who  had  painted  their 
signs  had  indulged  his  fancy  in  wild  excesses  of  phle- 
botomy. We  had  found  that,  as  we  came  south 
from  Venice,  science  grew  more  and  more  sanguin- 
ary in  Italy,  and  more  and  more  disposed  to  let 
blood.  At  Ferrara,  even,  the  propensity  began  to 
be  manifest  on  the  barbers'  signs,  which  displayed 
the  device  of  an  arm  lanced  at  the  elbow,  and  jetting 
the  blood  by  a  neatly  described  curve  into  a  tum- 
bler. Further  south  the  same  arm  was  seen  to  bleed 
at  the  wrist  also ;  and  at  Naples  an  exhaustive  treat- 
ment of  the  subject  appeared,  the  favorite  study  of 
the  artist  being  to  represent  a  nude  figure  reclining 
in  a  genteel  attitude  on  a  bank  of  pleasant  green- 
sward, and  bleeding  from  the  elbows,  wrists,  hands, 
ankles,  and  feet. 

in. 

IN  Naples  everywhere  one  is  surprised  by  the 
great  number  of  English  names  which  appear  on 
business  houses,  but  it  was  entirely  bewildering  to 
read  a  bill  affixed  to  the  gate  of  one  of  the  villas  on 
this  road  :  "  This  Desirable  Property  for  Sale."  I 
should  scarcely  have  cared  to  buy  that  desirable 
property,  though  the  neighborhood  seemed  to  be  a  fa- 
vorite summer  resort,  and  there  were  villas,  as  I  said, 
nearly  the  whole  way  to  Portici.  Those  which  stood 
with  their  gardens  toward  the  bay  would  have  been 
tolerable,  no  doubt,  if  they  could  have  kept  their 


A  HALF-HOUR  AT  HERCULANEUM.      109 

windows  shut  to  the  vile  street  before  their  doors ; 
but  the  houses  opposite  could  have  had  no  escape 
from  its  stench  and  noisomeness.  It  was  absolutely 
the  filthiest  street  I  have  seen  anywhere  outside  of 
New  York,  excepting  only  that  little  street  which,  in 
Herculaneum,  leads  from  the  theatre  to  the  House 
of  Argo. 

This  pleasant  avenue  has  a  stream  of  turbid  water 
in  its  centre,  bordered  by  begging  children,  and  is 
either  fouler  or  cleaner  for  the  water,  but  I  shall 
never  know  which.  It  is  at  a  depth  of  some  fifty  or 
sixty  feet  below  the  elevation  on  which  the  present 
city  of  Portici  is  built,  and  is  part  of  the  excavation 
made  long  ago  to  reach  the  plain  on  which  Hercula- 
neum stands,  buried  under  its  half-score  of  successive 
layers  of  lava,  and  ashes,  and  Portici.  We  had  the 
aid  of  all  the  virtuous  poverty  and  leisure  of  the 
modern  town  —  there  was  a  vast  deal  of  both,  we 
found  —  in  our  search  for  the  staircase  by  which  you 
descend  to  the  classic  plain,  and  it  proved  a  dis- 
covery involving  the  outlay  of  all  the  copper  coin 
about  us,  while  the  sight  of  the  famous  theatre  of 
Herculaneum  was  much  more  expensive  than  it 
would  have  been  had  we  come  there -Sn  the  old  time 
to  see  a  play  of  Plautus  or  Terence. 

As  for  the  theatre,  "  the  large  and  highly  orna- 
mented theatre  "  of  which  I  read,  only  a  little  while 
ago,  in  an  encyclopedia,  we  found  it,  by  the  light 
of  our  candles,  a  series  of  gloomy  hollows,  of  the 
general  complexion  of  coal-bins  and  potato-cellars. 
It  was  never  perfectly  dug  out  of  the  lava,  and,  as  is 


110  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

known,  it  was  filled  up  in  the  last  century,  together 
with  other  excavations,  when  they  endangered  the 
foundations  of  worthless  Portici  overhead.  (I  am 
amused  to  find  myself  so  hot  upon  the  poor  prop- 
erty-holders of  Portici.  I  suppose  I  should  not  my- 
self, even  for  the  cause  of  antiquity  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  classic  civilization,  like  to  have  my  house 
tumbled  about  my  ears.)  But  though  it  was  im- 
possible in  the  theatre  of  Herculaneum  to  gain  any 
idea  of  its  size  or  richness,  I  remembered  there  the 
magnificent  bronzes  which  had  been  found  in  it,  and 
did  a  hasty  reverence  to  the  place.  Indeed,  it  is 
amazing,  when  one  sees  how  small  a  part  of  Hercu- 
laneum has  been  uncovered,  to  consider  the  number 
of  fine  works  of  art  in  the  Museo  Borbonico  which 
were  taken  thence,  and  which  argue  a  much  richer 
and  more  refined  community  than  that  of  Pompeii. 
A  third  of  the  latter  city  has  now  been  restored  to 
the  light  of  day  ;  but  though  it  has  yielded  abun- 
dance of  all  the  things  that  illustrate  the  domestic 
and  public  life,  and  the  luxury  and  depravity  of  those 
old  times,  and  has  given  the  once  secret  rooms  of  the 
museum  their  worst  attraction,  it  still  falls  far  below 
Herculaneum  in  the  value  of  its  contributions  to  the 
treasures  of  classic  art,  except  only  in  the  variety  and 
beauty  of  its  exquisite  frescos. 

The  effect  of  this  fact  is  to  stimulate  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  visitor  to  that  degree  that  nothing  short 
of  the  instant  destruction  of  Portici  and  the  exca- 
vation of  all  Herculaneum  will  satisfy  him.  If  the 
opening  of  one  theatre,  and  the  uncovering  of  a 


A  HALF-HOUR  AT  HERCULANEUM.      Ill 

basilica  and  two  or  three  houses,  have  given  such 
richness  to  us,  what  delight  and  knowledge  would 
not  the  removal  of  these  obdurate  hills  of  ashes  and 
lava  bestow ! 

Emerging  from  the  coal-bins  and  potato-cellars, 
the  visitor  extinguishes  his  candle  with  a  pathetic 
sigh,  profusely  rewards  the  custodian  (whom  he  con- 
nects in  some  mysterious  way  with  the  ancient  popu- 
lation of  the  injured  city  about  him),  and,  thought- 
fully removing  the  tallow  from  his  fingers,  follows  the 
course  of  the  vile  stream  already  sung,  and  soon  ar- 
rives at  the  gate  opening  into  the  exhumed  quarter 
of  Herculaneum.  And  there  he  finds  a  custodian 
who  enters  perfectly  into  his  feelings ;  a  custodian 
who  has  once  been  a  guide  in  Pompeii,  but  now  de- 
spises that  wretched  town,  and  would  not  be  guide 
there  for  any  money  since  he  has  known  the  supe- 
rior life  of  Herculaneum ;  who,  in  fine,  feels  toward 
Pompeii  as  a  Bostonian  feels  toward  New  York.  Yet 
the  reader  would  be  wrong  to  form  the  idea  that 
there  is  bitterness  in  the  disdain  of  this  custodian. 
On  the  contrary,  he  is  one  of  the  best-natured  men 
in  the  world.  He  is  a  mighty  mass  of  pinguid 
bronze,  with  a  fat  lisp,  and  a  broad,  sunflower  smile, 
and  he  lectures  us  with  a  vast  and  genial  breadth  of 
manner  on  the  ruins,  contradicting  all  our  guesses  at 

things  with  a  sweet  "  Perdoni,  signori !  ma ."  At 

the  end,  we  find  that  he  has  some  medallions  of  lava 
to  sell :  there  is  Victor  Emanuel,  or,  if  we  are  of  the 
partita  d'azione,  there  is  Garibaldi ;  both  warm  yet 
from  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  and  of  the  same  material 


112  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

which  destroyed  Herculaneum.  We  decline  to  buy, 
and  the  custodian  makes  the  national  shrug  and 
grimace  (signifying  that  we  are  masters  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  that  he  washes  his  hands  of  the  consequence 
of  our  folly)  on  the  largest  scale  that  we  have  ever 
seen :  his  mighty  hands  are  rigidly  thrust  forth,  his 
great  lip  protruded,  his  enormous  head  thrown  back 
to  bring  his  face  on  a  level  with  his  chin.  The  effect 
is  tremendous,  but  we  nevertheless  feel  that  he  loves 
us  the  same. 

IV. 

THE  afternoon  on  which  we  visited  Herculaneum 
was  in  melancholy  contrast  to  the  day  we  spent  in 
Pompeii.  The  lingering  summer  had  at  last  saddened 
into  something  like  autumnal  gloom,  and  that  blue, 
blue  sky  of  Naples  was  overcast.  So,  this  second 
draught  of  the  spirit  of  the  past  had  not  only  some- 
thing of  the  insipidity  of  custom,  but  brought  rather 
a  depression  than  a  lightness  to  our  hearts.  There 
was  so  little4  of  Herculaneum :  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  square  are  exhumed,  and  we  counted  the 
houses  easily  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  leaving  the 
thumb  to  stand  for  the  few  rods  of  street  that,  with 
its  flagging  of  lava  and  narrow  border  of  foot-walks, 
lay  between  ;  and  though  the  custodian,  apparently 
moved  at  our  dejection,  said  that  the  excavation  was 
to  be  resumed  the  very  next  week,  the  assurance 
did  little  to  restore  our  cheerfulness.  Indeed,  I 
fancy  that  these  old  cities  must  needs  be  seen  in  the 
sunshine  by  those  who  would  feel  what  gay  lives 


A  HALF-HOUR  AT  HERCULANEUM.      113 

they  once  led  ;  by  dimmer  light  they  are  very  sullen 
spectres,  and  their  doom  still  seems  to  brood  upon 
them.  I  know  that  even  Pompeii  could  not  have 
been  joyous  that  sunless  afternoon,  for  what  there 
was  to  see  of  mournful  Herculaneum  was  as  brilliant 
with  colors  as  any  thing  in  the  former  city.  Nay,  I 
believe  that  the  tints  of  the  frescos  and  painted  col- 
umns were  even  brighter,  and  that  the  walls  of  the 
houses  were  far  less  ruinous  than  those  of  Pompeii. 
But  no  house  was  wholly  freed  from  lava,  and  the 
little  street  ran  at  the  rear  of  the  buildings  which 
were  supposed  to  front  on  some  grander  avenue  not 
yet  exhumed.  It  led  down,  as  the  custodian  pre- 
tended, to  a  wharf,  and  he  showed  an  iron  ring  in 
the  wall  of  the  House  of  Argo,  standing  at  the  end 
of  the  street,  to  which,  he  said,  his  former  fellow- 
citizens  used  to  fasten  their  boats,  though  it  was  all 
dry  enough  there  now. 

There  is  evidence  in  Herculaneum  of  much  more 
ambitious  domestic  architecture  than  seems  to  have 
been  known  in  Pompeii.  The  ground-plan  of  the 
houses  in  the  two  cities  is  alike  ;  but  in  the  former 
there  was  often  a  second  story,  as  was  proven  by  the 
charred  ends  of,  beams  still  protruding  from  the 
walls,  while  in  the  latter  there  is  only  one  house 
which  is  thought  to  have  aspired  to  a  second  floor. 
The  House  of  Argo  is  also  much  larger  than  any  in 
Pompeii,  and  its  appointments  were  more  magnifi- 
cent. Indeed,  we  imagined  that  in  this  more  purely 
Greek  town  we  felt  an  atmosphere  of  better  taste  in 
every  thing  than  prevailed  in  the  fashionable  Roman 


114  ITALIAN    JOURNEYS. 

watering-place,  though  this,  too,  was  a  summer  resort 
of  the  "  best  society  "  of  the  empire.  The  mosaic 
pavements  were  exquisite,  and  the  little  bed-cham- 
bers dainty  and  delicious  in  their  decorations.  The 
lavish  delight  in  color  found  expression  in  the  vividest 
hues  upon  the  walls,  and  not  only  were  the  columns 
of  the  garden  painted,  but  the  foliage  of  the  capitals 
was  variously  tinted.  The  garden  of  the  House  of 
Argo  was  vaster  than  any  of  the  classic  world  which 
we  had  yet  seen,  and  was  superb  with  a  long  colon- 
nade of  unbroken  columns.  Between  these  and  the 
walls  of  the  houses  was  a  pretty  pathway  of  mosaic, 
and  in  the  midst  once  stood  marble  tables,  under 
which  the  workmen  exhuming  the  city  found  certain 
crouching  skeletons.  At  one  end  was  the  dining- 
room,  of  course,  and  painted  on  the  wall  was  a  lady 
with  a  parasol. 

I  thought  all  Herculaneum  sad  enough,  but  the 
profusion  of  flowers  growing  wild  in  this  garden  gave 
it  a  yet  more  tender  and  pathetic  charm.  Here  — 
where  so  long  ago  the  flowers  had  bloomed,  and 
perished  in  the  terrible  blossoming  of  the  mountain 
that  sent  up  its  fires  in  the  awful  similitude  of  Na- 
.ture's  harmless  and  lovely  forms,  #nd  showered  its 
destroying  petals  all  abroad  —  was  it  not  tragic  to 
find  again  the  soft  tints,  the  graceful  shapes,  the 
sweet  perfumes  of  the  earth's  immortal  life  ?  Of 
them  that  planted  and  tended  and  plucked  and  bore 
in  their  bosoms  and  twined  in  their  hair  these  fragile 
children  of  the  summer,  what  witness  in  the  world? 
Only  the  crouching  skeletons  under  the  tables.  Alas 
and  alas  ! 


A  HALF-HOUR  AT  HERCULANEUM.      115 


V. 

THE  skeletons  went  with  us  throughout  Hercula- 
neum, and  descended  into  the  cell,  all  green  with 
damp,  under  the  basilica,  and  lay  down,  fettered  and 
manacled  in  the  place  of  those  found  there  beside 
the  big  bronze  kettle  in  which  the  prisoners  used  to 
cook  their  dinners.  How  ghastly  the  thought  of  it 
was !  If  we  had  really  seen  this  kettle  and  the 
skeletons  there  —  as  we  did  not  —  we  could  not  have 
suffered  more  than  we  did.  They  took  all  the  life 
out  of  the  House  of  Perseus,  and  the  beauty  from  his 
pretty  little  domestic  temple  to  the  Penates,  and  this 
was  all  there  was  left  in  Herculaneum  to  see. 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  ?  "  we  demand  of  the  cus- 
todian. 

"  Signori,  this  is  all." 

"  It  is  mighty  little." 

"  Perdoni,  signori !  ma ." 

"  Well,"  we  say  sourly  to  each  other,  glancing 
round  at  the  walls  of  the  pit,  on  the  bottom  of  which 
the  bit  of  city  stands,  "  it  is  a  good  thing  to  know 
that  Herculaneum  amounts  to  nothing." 


X. 

CAPRI     AND     CAPRIOTES. 

I. 

t 

I  HAVE  no  doubt 

"  Calm  Capri  waits," 

where  we  left  it,  in  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  for  any  trav- 
eller who  may  choose  to  pay  it  a  visit ;  but  at  the 
time  we  were  there  we  felt  that  it  was  on  exhibition 
for  that  day  only,  and  would,  when  we  departed,  dis- 
appear in  its  sapphire  sea,  and  be  no  more  ;  just  as 
Niagara  ceases  to  play  as  soon  as  your  back  is  turned, 
and  Venice  goes  out  like  a  pyrotechnic  display,  and 
all  marvelously  grand  and  lovely  things  make  haste 
to  prove  their  impermanence. 

We  delayed  some  days  in  Naples  in  hopes  of  fine 
weather,  and  at  last  chose  a  morning  that  was  warm 
and  cloudy  at  nine  o'clock,  and  burst  into  frequent 
passions  of  rain  before  we  reached  Sorrento  at  noon. 
The  first  half  of  the  journey  was  made  by  rail,  and 
brought  us  to  Castellamare,  whence  we  took  carriage 
for  Sorrento,  and  oranges,  and  rapture,  —  winding 
along  the  steep  shore  of  the  sea,  and  under  the  brows 
of  wooded  hills  that  rose  high  above  us  into  the  misty 
weather,  and  caught  here  and  there  the  sunshine  on 


CAPRI   AND   CAPRIOTES.  117 

their  tops.  In  that  heavenly  climate  no  day  can 
long  be  out  of  humor,  and  at  Sorrento  we  found 
ours  very  pleasant,  and  rode  delightedly  through  the 
devious  streets,  looking  up  to  the  terraced  orange- 
groves  on  one  hand,  and  down  to  the  terraced  orange- 
groves  on  the  other,  until  at  a  certain  turning  of  the 
way  we  encountered  Antonino  Occhio  d'Argento, 
whom  fate  had  appointed  to  be  our  boatman  to  Capri. 
We  had  never  heard  of  Antonino  before,  and  indeed 
had  intended  to  take  a  boat  from  one  of  the  hotels  ; 
but  when  this  corsair  offered  us  his  services,  there 
was  that  guile  in  his  handsome  face,  that  cunning  in 
his  dark  eyes,  that  heart  could  not  resist,  and  we 
halted  our  carriage  and  took  him  at  once. 

He  kept  his  boat  in  one  of  those  caverns  which 
honey-comb  the  cliff  under  Sorrento,  and  afford  a 
natural  and  admirable  shelter  for  such  small  craft  as 
may  be  dragged  up  out  of  reach  of  the  waves,  and 
here  I  bargained  with  him  before  finally  agreeing  to 
go  with  him  to  Capri.  In  Italy  it  is  customary  for  a 
public  carrier  when  engaged  to  give  his  employer  as 
a  pledge  the  sum  agreed  upon  for  the  service,  which 
is  returned  with  the  amount  due  him,  at  the  end,  if 
the  service  has  been  satisfactory  ;  and  I  demanded  of 
Antonino  this  caparra,  as  it  is  called.  "  What  ca- 
parra?  "  said  he,  lifting  the  lid  of  his  wicked  eye  with 
his  forefinger ;  "  this  is  the  best  caparra^'  meaning  a 
face  as  honest  and  trustworthy  as  the  devil's.  The 
stroke  confirmed  my  subjection  to  Antonino,  and  I 
took  his  boat  without  further  parley,  declining  even 
to  feel  the  muscle  of  his  boatmen's  arms,  which  he  ex- 


118  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

posed  to  my  touch  in  evidence  that  they  were  strong 
enough  to  row  us  swiftly  to  Capri.  The  men  were 
but  two  in  number,  but  they  tossed  the  boat  lightly 
into  the  surf,  and  then  lifted  me  aboard,  and  rowed 
to  the  little  pier  from  which  the  ladies  and  T. 
got  in. 

The  sun  shone,  the  water  danced  and  sparkled, 
and  presently  we  raised  our  sail,  and  took  the  gale 
that  blew  for  Capri  —  an  oblong  height  rising  ten 
miles  beyond  out  of  the  heart  of  the  azure  gulf.  On 
the  way  thither  there  was  little  interest  but  that  of 
natural  beauty  in  the  bold,  picturesque  coast  we 
skirted  for  some  distance  ;  though  on  one  mighty 
rock  there  were  the  ruins  of  a  seaward-looking  Tem- 
ple of  Hercules,  with  arches  of  the  unmistakable 
Roman  masonry,  below  which  the  receding  waves 
rushed  and  poured  over  a  jetting  ledge  in  a  thun- 
derous cataract. 

Antonino  did  his  best  to  entertain  us,  and  lect- 
ured us  unceasingly  upon  his  virtue  and  his  wisdom, 
dwelling  greatly  on  the  propriety  and  good  policy 
of  always  speaking  the  truth.  This  spectacle  of  ve- 
racity became  intolerable  after  a  while,  and  I  was 
goaded  to  say :  "  Oh  then,  if  you  never  tell  lies,  you 
expect  to  go  to  Paradise."  "  Not  at  all,"  answered 
Antonino  compassionately,  "  for  I  have  sinned  much. 
But  ^he  lie  does  n't  go  ahead  "  (non  va  avanti),  added 
this  Machiavelli  of  boatmen ;  yet  I  think  he  was 
mistaken,  for  he  deceived  us  with  perfect  ease  and 
admirable  success.  All  along,  he  had  pretended  that 
we  could  see  Capri,  visit  the  Blue  Grotto,  and  return 


CAPRI   AND    CAPEIOTES.  119 

that  day  ;  but  as  we  drew  near  the  island,  painful 
doubts  began  to  trouble  him,  and  he  feared  the  sea 
would  be  too  rough  for  the  Grotto  part  of  the  affair. 
"  But  there  will  be  an  old  man,"  he  said,  with  a  sub- 
tile air  of  prophecy,  "  waiting  for  us  on  the  beach. 
This  old  man  is  one  of  the  Government  guides  to  the 
Grotto,  and  he  will  say  whether  it  is  to  be  seen  to- 
day." 

And  certainly  there  was  the  old  man  on  the  beach 
—  a  short  patriarch,  with  his  baldness  covered  by  a 
kind  of  bloated  wollen  sock  —  a  blear-eyed  sage,  and 
a  bare-legged.  He  waded  through  the  surf  toward 
the  boat,  and  when  we  asked  him  whether  the 
Grotto  was  to  be  seen,  he  paused  knee- deep  in  the 
water,  (at  a  secret  signal  from  Antonino,  as  I  shall 
always  believe,)  put  on  a  face  of  tender  solemnity, 
threw  back  his  head  a  little,  brought  his  hand  to  his 
cheek,  expanded  it,  and  said,  "  No ;  to-day,  no  !  To- 
morrow, yes !  "  Antonino  leaped  joyously  ashore, 
and  delivered  us  over  to  the  old  man,  to  be  guided 
to  the  Hotel  di  Londra,  while  he  drew  his  boat  upon 
the  land.  He  had  reason  to  be  contented,  for  this 
artifice  of  the  patriarch  of  Capri  relieved  him  from 
the  necessity  of  verifying  to  me  the  existence  of  an 
officer  of  extraordinary  powers  in  the  nature  of  a 
consul,  who,  he  said,  would  not  permit  boats  to  leave 
Capri  for  the  main -land  after  five  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing. 

When  it  was  decided  that  we  should  remain  on 
the  island  till  the  morrow,  we  found  so  much  time  on 
our  hands,  after  bargaining  for  our  lodging  at  the 


120  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

Hotel  di  Londra,  that  we  resolved  to  ascend  the 
mountain  to  the  ruins  of  the  palaces  of  Tiberius,  and 
to  this  end  we  contracted  for  the  services  of  certain 
of  the  muletresses  that  had  gathered  about  the  inn- 
gate,  clamorously  offering  their  beasts.  The  mule- 
tresses  chosen  were  a  matron  of  mature  years  and 
of  a  portly  habit  of  body  ;  her  daughter,  a  mere 
child ;  and  her  niece,  a  very  pretty  girl  of  eighteen, 
with  a  voice  soft  and  sweet  as  a  bird's.  They  placed 
the  ladies,  one  on  each  mule,  and  then,  while  the 
mother  and  daughter  devoted  themselves  to  the 
hind-quarters  of  the  foremost  animal,  the  lovely  niece 
brought  up  the  rear  of  the  second  beast,  and  the 
patriarch  went  before,  and  T.  and  I  trudged  behind. 
So  the  cavalcade  ascended  ;  first,  from  the  terrace  of 
the  hotel  overlooking  the  bit  of  shipping  village  on 
the  beach,  and  next  from  the  town  of  Capri,  clinging 
to  the  hill-sides,  midway  between  sea  and  sky,  until 
at  last  it  reached  the  heights  on  which  the  ruins 
stand.  Our  way  was  through  narrow  lanes,  bordered 
by  garden  walls  ;  then  through  narrow  streets  bor- 
dered by  dirty  houses ;  and  then  again  by  gardens, 
but  now  of  a  better  sort  than  the  first,  and  belong- 
ing to  handsome  villas. 

On  the  road  our  pretty  muletress  gossiped  cheer- 
fully, and  our  patriarch  gloomily,  and  between  the 
two  we  accumulated  a  store  of  information  concerning 
the  present  inhabitants  of  Capri,  which,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  has  now  for  the  most  part  failed  me.  I  re- 
member that  they  said  most  of  the  land-owners  at 
Capri  were  Neapolitans,  and  that  these  villas  were 


CAPRI   AND   CAPRIOTES.  121 

their  country-houses ;  though  they  pointed  out  one 
of  the  stateliest  of  the  edifices  as  belonging  to  a 
certain  English  physician  who  had  come  to  visit 
Capri  for  a  few  days,  and  had  now  been  living  on  the 
island  twenty  years,  having  married  (said  the  mule- 
tress)  the  prettiest  and  poorest  girl  in  the  town. 
From  this  romance  —  something  like  which  the 
muletress  seemed  to  think  might  well  happen  con- 
cerning herself — we  passed  lightly  to  speak  of 
kindred  things,  the  muletress  responding  gayly  be- 
tween the  blows  she  bestowed  upon  her  beast.  The 
accent  of  these  Capriotes  has  something  of  German 
harshness  and  heaviness  :  they  say  non  bosso  instead 
of  nonposso,  and  monto  instead  of  mondo,  and  inter- 
change the  t  and  d  a  good  deal ;  and  they  use  for 
father  the  Latin  pater,  instead  of  padre.  But  this 
girl's  voice,  as  I  said,  was  very  musical,  and  the 
island's  accent  was  sweet  upon  her  tongue. 

I.  —  What  is  your  name  ? 

She.  —  Caterina,  little  sir  (signorin). 

I.  —  And  how  old  are  you,  Caterina  ? 

She.  —  Eighteen,  little  sir. 

/.  —  And  you  are  betrothed  ? 

She  feigns  not  to  understand;  but  the  patriarch, 
who  has  dropped  behind  to  listen  to  our  discourse, 
explains,  —  "  He  asks  if  you  are  in  love." 

She.  —  Ah,  no  !  little  sir,  not  yet. 

I.  —  No  ?  A  little  late,  it  seems  to  me.  I  think 
there  must  be  some  good-looking  youngster  who 
pleases  you  —  no  ? 

She.  — Ah,  no!  one  must  work,  one  cannot  think 


122  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

of  marrying.  We  are  four  sisters,  and  we  have  only 
the  buonamano  from  hiring  these  mules,  and  we  must 
spin  and  cook. 

The  Patriarch.  —  Don't  believe  her ;  she  has  two 
lovers. 

She.  —  Ah,  no  !  It  is  n't  true.    He  tells  a  fib  —  he  ! 

But,  nevertheless,  she  seemed  to  love  to  be  accused 
of  lovers,  —  such  is  the  guile  of  the  female  heart  in 
Capri, —  and  laughed  over  the  patriarch's  wickedness. 
She  confided  that  she  ate  maccaroni  once  a  day,  and 
she  talked  constantly  of  eating  it  just  as  the  North- 
ern Italians  always  talk  of  polenta.  She  was  a  true 
daughter  of  the  isle,  and  had  never  left  it  but  once 
in  her  life,  when  she  went  to  Naples.  "  Naples  was 
beautiful,  yes  ;  but  one  always  loves  one's  own  coun- 
try the  best."  She  was  very  attentive  and  good, 
but  at  the  end  was  rapacious  of  more  and  more 
buonamano.  "  Have  patience  with  her,  sir,"  said 
the  blameless  Antonino,  who  witnessed  her  greedi- 
ness ;  "  they  do  not  understand  certain-  matters  here, 
poor  little  things  ! '' 

As  for  the  patriarch,  he  was  full  of  learning  rela- 
tive to  himself  and  to  Capri ;  and  told  me  witli  much 
elaboration  that  the  islanders  lived  chiefly  by  fishing, 
and  gained  something  also  by  their  vineyards.  But 
they  were  greatly  oppressed  by  taxes,  and  the  strict 
enforcement  of  the  conscriptions,  and  they  had  little 
love  for  the  Italian  Government,  and  wished  the 
Bourbons  back  again.  The  Piedmontese,  indeed, 
misgoverned  them  horribly.  There  was  the  Blue 
Grotto,  for  example  :  formerly  travellers  paid  the 


CAPEI   AND   CAPRIOTES.  123 

guides  five,  six,  ten  francs  for  viewing  it ;  but  now  the 
Piedmontese  had  made  a  tariff,  and  the  poor  guides 
could  only  exact  a  franc  from  each  person.  Things 
were  in  a  ruinous  condition. 

By  this  we  had  arrived  at  a  little  inn  on  the  top  of 
the  mountain,  very  near  the  ruins  of  the  palaces. 
"  Here,"  said  the  patriarch,  "  it  is  customary  for 
strangers  to  drink  a  bottle  of  the  wine  of  Tiberius." 
We  obediently  entered  the  hostelry,  and  the  land- 
lord—  a  white-toothed,  brown-faced,  good-humored 
peasant  —  gallantly  ran  forward  and  presented  the 
ladies  with  bouquets  of  roses.  We  thought  it  a 
pretty  and  graceful  act,  but  found  later  that  it  was 
to  be  paid  for,  like  all  pretty  and  graceful  things  in 
Italy  ;  for  when  we  came  to  settle  for  the  wine,  and 
the  landlord  wanted  more  than  justice,  he  urged  that 
he  had  presented  the  ladies  with  flowers,  —  yet  he 
equally  gave  me  his  benediction  when  I  refused  to 
pay  for  his  politeness. 

"  Now  here,"  again  said  the  patriarch  in  a  solemn 
whisper,  "  you  can  see  the  Tarantella  danced  for  two 
francs ;  whereas  down  at  your  inn,  if  you  hire  the 
dancers  through  your  landlord,  it  will  cost  you  five 
or  six  francs."  The  difference  was  tempting,  and 
decided  us  in  favor  of  an  immediate  Tarantella. 
The  muletresses  left  their  beasts  to  browse  about  the 
door  of  the  inn  and  came  into  the  little  public  room, 
where  were  already  the  wife  and  sister  of  the  land- 
lord, and  took  their  places  vis-d-vis,  while  the  land- 
lord seized  his  tambourine  and  beat  from  it  a  wild 
and  lively  measure.  The  women  were  barefooted 


124  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

and  hoopless,  and  they  gave  us  the  Tarantella  with 
all  the  beauty  of  natural  movement  and  free  floating 
drapery,  and  with  all  that  splendid  grace  of  pose 
which  animates  the  antique  statues  and  pictures  of 
dancers.  They  swayed  themselves  in  time  with  the 
music ;  then,  filled  with  its  passionate  impulse,  ad- 
vanced and  retreated  and  whirled  away  ;  —  snapping 
their  fingers  above  their  heads,  and  looking  over  their 
shoulders  with  a  gay  and  a  laughing  challenge  to 
each  other,  they  drifted  through  the  ever-repeated 
figures  of  flight  and  wooing,  and  wove  for  us  pictures 
of  delight  that  remained  upon  the  brain  like  the  ef- 
fect of  long-pondered  vivid  colors,  and  still  return  to 
illumine  and  complete  any  representation  of  that 
indescribable  dance.  Heaven  knows  what  peril  there 
might  have  been  in  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the 
pretty  muletress  but  for  the  spectacle  of  her  fat  aunt, 
who,  I  must  confess,  could  only  burlesque  some  of 
her  niece's  airiest  movements,  and  whose  hard-bought 
buoyancy  was  at  once  pathetic  and  laughable.  She 
earned  her  share  of  the  spoils  certainly,  and  she 
seemed  glad  when  the  dance  was  over,  and  went 
contentedly  back  to  her  mule. 

The  patriarch  had  early  retired  from  the  scene  as 
from  a  vanity  with  which  he  was  too  familiar  for  en- 
joyment, and  I  found  him,  wrhen  the  Tarantella  was 
done,  leaning  on  the  curb  of  the  precipitous  rock 
immediately  behind  the  inn,  over  which  the  Capriotes 
say  Tiberius  used  to  cast  the  victims  of  his  pleasures 
after  he  was  sated  with  them.  These  have  taken 
their  place  in  the  insular  imagination  as  Christian 


CAPRI    AND    CAPRIOTES.  125 

martyrs,  though  it  is  probable  that  the  poor  souls 
were  any  thing  but  Nazarenes.  It  took  a  stone 
thrown  from  the  brink  of  the  rock  twenty  seconds  to 
send  back  a  response  from  the  water  below,  and  the 
depth  was  too  dizzying  to  look  into.  So  we  looked 
instead  toward  Amalfi,  across  the  Gulf  of  Salerno, 
and  toward  Naples,  across  her  bay.  On  every  hand 
the  sea  was  flushed  with  sunset,  and  an  unspeakable 
calm  dwelt  upon  it,  while  the  heights  rising  from  it 
softened  and  softened  in  the  distance,  and  withdrew 
themselves  into  dreams  of  ghostly  solitude  and  phan- 
tom city.  His  late  majesty  the  Emperor  Tiberius 
is  well  known  to  have  been  a  man  of  sentiment,  and 
he  may  often  have  sought  this  spot  to  enjoy  the  even- 
ing hour.  It;  was  convenient  to  his  palace,  and  he 
could  here  give  a  fillip  to  his  jaded  sensibilities  by 
popping  a  boon  companion  over  the  cliff,  and  thus 
enjoy  the  fine  poetic  contrast  which  his  perturbed 
and  horrible  spirit  afforded  to  that  scene  of  innocence 
and  peace.  Later  he  may  have  come  hither  also, 
when  lust  failed,  when  all  the  lewd  plays  and  devices 
of  his  fancy  palled  upon  his  senses,  when  sin  had 
grown  insipid  and  even  murder  ceased  to  amuse,  and 
his  majesty  uttered  his  despair  to  the  Senate  in  that 
terrible  letter :  "  What  to  write  to  you,  or  how  to 
write,  I  know  not ;  and  what  not  to  write  at  this 
time,  may  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  torment  me 
more  than  I  daily  feel  that  I  suffer  if  I  do  know." 

The  poor  patriarch  was  also  a  rascal  in  his  small 
way,  and  he  presently  turned  to  me  with  a  counte- 
nance full  of  cowardly  trouble  and  base  remorse. 


126  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

"  I  pray  you,  little  sir,  not  to  tell  the  landlord  below 
there  that  you  have  seen  the  Tarantella  danced 
here ;  for  he  has  daughters  and  friends  to  dance  it 
for  strangers,  and  gets  a  deal  of  money  by  it.  So, 
if  he  asks  you  to  see  it,  do  me  the  pleasure  to  say, 
lest  he  should  take  on  (^pigliarsi)  with  me  about  it : 
'  Thanks,  but  we  saw  the  Tarantella  at  Pompeii  ! ' 
It  was  the  last  place  in  Italy  where  we  were  likely  to 
have  seen  the  Tarantella  ;  but  these  simple  people 
are  improvident  in  lying,  as  in  every  thing  else. 

The  patriarch  Had  a  curious  spice  of  malice  in 
him,  which  prompted  him  to  speak  evil  of  all,  and  to 
as  many  as  he  dared.  After  we  had  inspected  the 
ruins  of  the  emperor's  villa,  a  clownish  imbecile  of  a 
woman,  professing  to  be  the  wife  of  the  peasant  who 
had  made  the  excavations,  came  forth  out  of  a  cleft 
in  the  rock  and  received  tribute  of  us  —  why,  I  do 
not  know.  The  patriarch  abetted  the  extortion,  but 
Parthianly  remarked,  as  we  turned  away,  "  Her 
husband  ought  to  be  here  ;  but  this  is  a,festa,  and 
he  is  drinking  and  gaming  in  the  village,"  while  the 
woman  protested  that  he  was  sick  at  home.  There 
was  also  a  hermit  living  in  great  publicity  among  the 
ruins,  and  the  patriarch  did  not  spare  him  a  sneering 
comment.*  He  had  even  a  bad  word  for  Tiberius, 
and  reproached  the  emperor  for  throwing  people  over 
the  cliff,  though  I  think  it  a  sport  in  which  he  would 

*  This  hermit  I  have  heard  was  not  brought  up  to  the  profession 
of  anchorite,  but  was  formerly  a  shoemaker,  and  according  to  his 
own  confession  abandoned  his  trade  because  he  could  better  in- 
dulge a  lethargic  habit  in  the  character  of  religious  recluse. 


CAPRI   AND   CAPRIOTES.  127 

himself  have  liked  to  join.  The  only  human  creat- 
ures with  whom  he  seemed  to  be  in  sympathy  were 
the  brigands  of  the  main-land,  of  whom  he  spoke 
poetically  as  exiles  and  fugitives. 

As  for  the  palace  of  Tiberius,  which  we  had  come 
so  far  and  so  toilsomely  to  see,  it  must  be  confessed 
there  was  very  little  left  of  it.  When  that  well- 
meaning  but  mistaken  prince  died,  the  Senate  de- 
molished his  pleasure-houses  at  Capri,  and  left  only 
those  fragments  of  the  beautiful  brick  masonry  which 
yet  remain,  clinging  indestructible  to  the  rocks,  and 
strewing  the  ground  with  rubbish.  The  recent  ex- 
cavations have  discovered  nothing  besides  the  unin- 
teresting foundations  of  the  building,  except  a  sub- 
terranean avenue  leading  from  one  part  of  the  palace 
to  another  :  this  is  walled  with  delicate  brickwork, 
and  exquisitely  paved  with  white  marble  mosaic ;  and 
this  was  all  that  witnessed  of  the  splendor  of  the 
wicked  emperor.  Nature,  the  all-forgetting,  all-for- 
giving, that  takes  the  red  battle-field  into  her  arms 
and  hides  it  with  blossom  and  hardest,  could  not 
remember  his  iniquity,  greater  than  the  multitudi- 
nous murder  of  war.  The  sea,  which  the  despot's 
lust  and  fear  had  made  so  lonely,  slept  with  the  white 
sails  of  boats  secure  upon  its  breast ;  the  little  bays 
and  inlets,  the  rocky  clefts  and  woody  dells,  had  for- 
gotten their  desecration  ;  and  the  gathering  twilight, 
the  sweetness  of  the  garden-bordered  pathway,  and 
the  serenity  of  the  lonely  landscape,  helped  us  to 
doubt  history. 

We  slowly  returned  to  the  inn  by  the  road  we  had 


128  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

ascended,  noting  again  the  mansion  of  the  surprising 
Englishman  who  had  come  to  Capri  for  three  months 
and  had  remained  thirty  years  ;  passed  through  the 
darkness  of  the  village,  —  dropped  here  and  there 
with  the  vivid  red  of  a  lamp,  —  and  so  reached  the 
inn  at  last,  where  we  found  the  landlord  ready  to 
have  the  Tarantella  danced  for  us.  We  framed  a 
discreeter  fiction  than  that  prepared  for  us  by  the  pa- 
triarch, and  went  in  to  dinner,  where  there  were  two 
Danish  gentlemen  in  dispute  with  as  many  rogues 
of  boatmen,  who,  having  contracted  to  take  them 
back  that  night  to  Naples,  were  now  trying  to  fly 
their  bargain  and  remain  at  Capri  till  the  morrow. 
The  Danes  beat  them,  however,  and  then  sat  down 
to  dinner,  and  to  long  stories  of  the  imposture  and 
villany  of  the  Italians.  One  of  them  chiefly  bewailed 
himself  that  the  day  before,  having  unwisely  eaten  a 
dozen  oysters  without  agreeing  first  with  the  oyster- 
man  upon  the  price,  he  had  been  obliged  to  pay  this 
scamp's  extortionate  demand  to  the  full,  since  he  was 
unable  to  restore  him  his  property.  We  thought 
that  something  like  this  might  have  happened  to  an 
imprudent  man  in  any  country,  but  we  did  not  the 
less  join  him  in  abusing  the  Italians  —  the  purpose 
for  which  foreigners  chiefly  visit  Italy. 


ii. 

STANDING  on  the  height  among  the  ruins  of  Ti- 
berius's  palace,  the  patriarch  had  looked  out  over 
the  waters,  and  predicted  for  the  morrow  the  finest 


CAPRI    AND    CAPRIOTES.  129 

weather  that  had  ever  been  known  in  that  region ; 
but  in  spite  of  this  prophecy  the  day  dawned  storm- 
ily,  and  at  breakfast  time  we  looked  out  doubtfully  on 
waves  lashed  by  driving  rain.  The  entrance  to  the 
Blue  Grotto,  to  visit  which  we  had  come  to  Capri,  is 
by  a  semicircular  opening,  some  three  feet  in  width 
and  two  feet  in  height,  and  just  large  enough  to  ad- 
mit a  small  boat.  One  lies  flat  in  the  bottom  of  this, 
waits  for  the  impulse  of  a  beneficent  wave,  and  is 
carried  through  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  and  res- 
cued from  it  in  like  manner  by  some  receding  billow. 
When  the  wind  is  in  the  wrong  quarter,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  enter  the  grot  at  all ;  and  we  waited  till  nine 
o'clock  for  the  storm  to  abate  before  we  ventured 
forth.  In  the  mean  time  one  of  the  Danish  gentle- 
men, who  —  after  assisting  his  companion  to  compel 
the  boatmen  to  justice  the  night  before  —  had  stayed 
at  Capri,  and  had  risen  early  to  see  the  grotto,  re- 
turned from  it,  and  we  besieged  him  with  a  hundred 
questions  concerning  it.  But  he  preserved  the  wise 
silence  of  the  boy  who  goes  in  to  see  the  six-legged 
calf,  and  comes  out  impervious  to  the  curiosity  of  all 
the  boys  who  are  doubtful  whether  the  monster  is 
worth  their  money.  Our  Dane  would  merely  say 
that  it  was  now  possible  to  visit  the  Blue  Grotto ; 
that  he  had  seen  it ;  that  he  was  glad  he  had  seen  it. 
As  to  its  blueness,  Messieurs  —  yes,  it  is  blue.  (Test 

d  dire 

The  ladies  had  been  amusing  themselves  with  a 
perusal  of  the  hotel  register,  and  the  notes  of  admi- 
ration or  disgust  with  which  the  different  sojourners 

9 


130  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

at  the  inn  had  filled  it.  As  a  rule,  the  English  peo- 
ple found  fault  with  the  poor  little  hostelry  and  the 
French  people  praised  it.  Commander  Joshing  and 
Lieutenant  Prattent,  R.  N.,  of  the  former  nation, 
"  were  cheated  by  the  donkey  women,  and  thought 
themselves  extremely  fortunate  to  have  escaped  with 
their  lives  from  the  effects  of  Capri  vintage.  The 
landlord  was  an  old  Cossack."  On  fhe  other  hand, 
we  read,  "  J.  Cruttard,  homme  de  lettres,  a  passS 
quinze  jours  ici,  et  n'a  eu  que  des  felicity's  du  patron 
de  cet  hotel  et  de  sa  famille."  Cheerful  man  of  let- 
ters !  His  good-natured  record  will  keep  green  a 
name  little  known  to  literature.  Who  are  G.  Brad- 
shaw,  Duke  of  New  York,  and  Signori  Jones  and 
Andrews,  Hereditary  Princes  of  the  United  States  ? 
Their  patrician  names  followed  the  titles  of  several 
English  nobles  in  the  register.  But  that  which  most 
interested  the  ladies  in  this  record  was  the  warning 
of  a  terrified  British  matron  against  any  visit  to  the 
Blue  Grotto  except  in  the  very  calmest  weather. 
The  British  matron  penned  her  caution  after  an  all 
but  fatal  experience.  The  ladies  read  it  aloud  to  us, 
and  announced  that  for  themselves  they  would  be 
contented  with  pictures  of  the  Blue  Grotto  and  our 
account  of  its  marvels. 

On  the  beach  below  the  hotel  lay  the  small  boats 
of  the  guides  to  the  Blue  Grotto,  and  we  descended 
to  take  one  of  them.  The  fixed  rate  is  a  franc  for 
each  person.  The  boatmen  wanted  five  francs  for 
each  of  us.  "We  explained  that  although  not  indige- 
nous to  Capri,  or  even  Italy,  we  were  not  of  the  sue- 


CAPRI    AND    CAPRIOTES.  131 

culent  growth  of  travellers,  and  would  not  be  eaten. 
We  retired  to  our  vantage  ground  on  the  heights. 
The  guides  called  us  to  the  beach  again.  They 
would  take  us  for  three  francs  apiece,  or  say  six 
francs  for  both  of  us.  We  withdrew  furious  to  the 
heights  again,  where  we  found  honest  Antonino,  who 
did  us  the  pleasure  to  yell  to  his  fellow-scoundrels  on 
the  beach,  "  You  had  better  take  these  signori  for  a 
just  price.  They  are  going  to  the  syndic  to  com- 
plain of  you."  At  which  there  arose  a  lamentable 
outcry  among  the  boatmen,  and  they  called  with  one 
voice  for  us  to  come  down  and  go  for  a  franc  apiece. 
This  fable  teaches  that  common-carriers  are  rogues 
everywhere ;  but  that  whereas  we  are  helpless  in 
their  hands  at  home,  we  may  bully  them  into  recti- 
tude in  Italy,  where  they  are  afraid  of  the  law. 

We  had  scarcely  left  the  landing  of  the  hotel  in 
the  boat  of  the  patriarch  —  for  I  need  hardly  say  he 
was  first  and  most  rapacious  of  the  plundering  crew 

—  when  we  found  ourselves  in  very  turbulent  waters, 
in  the  face  of  mighty  bluffs,  rising  inaccessible  from 
the  sea.     Here  and  there,  where  their  swarthy  fronts 
were  softened  with  a  little  verdure,  goat-  paths  wound 
up  and  down  among  the  rocks ;  and  midway  between 
the  hotel  and  the  grotto,  in  a  sort  of  sheltered  nook, 
we  saw  the  Roman  masonry  of  certain  antique  baths 

—  baths  of  Augustus,  says  Valery  ;  baths  of  Tiberius, 
say  the  Capriotes,  zealous  for  the  honor  of  their  in- 
famous hero.     Howbeit,  this  was  all  we  saw  on  the 
way  to  the  Blue  Grotto.     Every  moment  the  waves 
rose  higher,  emulous  of  the  bluffs,  which  would  not 


132  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

have  afforded  a  foothold,  or  any  thing  to  cling  to,  had 
we  been  upset  and  washed  against  them  —  and  we 
began  to  talk  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  As  we 
neared  the  grotto,  the  patriarch  entertained  us  with 
stories  of  the  perilous  adventures  of  people  who  in- 
sisted upon  entering  it  in  stormy  weather,  —  espe- 
cially of  a  French  painter  who  had  been  imprisoned 
in  it  four  days,  and  kept  alive  only  on  rum,  which 
the  patriarch  supplied  him,  swimming  into  the  grotto 
with  a  bottle-full  at  a  time.  "  And  behold  us  ar- 
rived, gentlemen  !  "  said  he,  as  he  brought  the  boat 
skillfully  around  in  front  of  the  small  semicircular 
opening  at  the  base  of  the  lofty  bluff.  We  lie  flat  on 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  complete  the  immersion 
of  that  part  of  our  clothing  which  the  driving  tor- 
rents of  rain  had  spared.  The  wave  of  destiny  rises 
with  us  upon  its  breast  —  sinks,  and  we  are  inside  of 
the  Blue  Grotto.  Not  so  much  blue  as  gray,  how- 
ever, and  the  water  about  the  rnouth  of  it  green 
rather  than  azure.  They  say  that  on  a  sunny  day 
both  the  water  and  the  roof  of  the  cavern  are  of  the 
vividest  cerulean  tint  —  and  I  saw  the  grotto  so  rep- 
resented in  the  windows  of  the  paint-shops  at  Na- 
ples. But  to  my  own  experience  it  did  not  differ 
from  other  caves  in  color  or  form:  there  was  the 
customary  clamminess  in  the  air  ;  the  sound  of  drop- 
ping water ;  the  sense  of  dull  and  stupid  solitude,  — 
a  little  relieved  in  this  case  by  the  mighty  music  of 
the  waves  breaking  against  the  rocks  outside.  The 
grot  is  not  great  in  extent,  and  the  roof  in  the  rear 
shelves  gradually  down  to  the  water.  Valery  says 


CAPRI   AND   CAPRIOTES.  133 

that  some  remains  of  a  gallery  have  caused  the  sup- 
position that  the  grotto  was  once  the  scene  of  Tibe- 
rius's  pleasures  ;  and  the  Prussian  painter  who  dis- 
covered the  cave  was  led  to  seek  it  by  something 
he  had  read  of  a  staircase  by  which  Barbarossa  used 
to  descend  into  a  subterranean  retreat  from  the  town 
of  Anacapri  on  the  mountain  top.  The  slight  frag- 
ment of  ruin  which  we  saw  in  one  corner  of  the  cave 
might  be  taken  in  confirmation  of  both  theories ; 
but  the  patriarch  attributed  the  work  to  Barbarossa, 
being  probably  tired  at  last  of  hearing  Tiberius  so 
much  talked  about. 

We  returned,  soaked  and  disappointed,  to  the  ho- 
tel, where  w,e  found  Antonino  very  doubtful  about 
the  possibility  of  getting  back  that  day  to  Sorrento, 
and  disposed,  when  pooh-poohed  out  of  the  notion  of 
bad  weather,  to  revive  the  fiction  of  a  prohibitory 
consul.  He  was  staying  in  Capri  at  our  expense, 
and  the  honest  fellow  would  willingly  have  spent  a 
fortnight  there. 

We  summoned  the  landlord  to  settlement,  and  he 
came  with  all  his  household  to  present  the  account, 
—  each  one  full  of  visible  longing,  yet  restrained 
from  asking  buonamano  by  a  strong  sense  of  previous 
contract.  It  was  a  deadly  struggle  with  them,  but 
they  conquered  themselves,  and  blessed  us  as  we 
departed.  The  pretty  muletress  took  leave  of  us 
on  the  beach,  and  we  set  sail  for  Sorrento,  the  ladies 
crouching  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  taking  their 
sea-sickness  in  silence.  As  we  drew  near  the  beau- 
tiful town,  we  saw  how  it  lay  on  a  plateau,  at  the 


134  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

foot  of  the  mountains,  but  high  above  the  sea.  An- 
tonino  pointed  out  to  us  the  house  of  Tasso,  —  in 
which  the  novelist  Cooper  also  resided  when  in  Sor- 
rento,—  a  white  house  not  handsomer  nor  uglier 
than  the  rest,  with  a  terrace  looking  out  over  the 
water.  The  bluffs  are  pierced  by  numerous  arched 
caverns,  as  I  have  said,  giving  shelter  to  the  fisher- 
men's boats,  and  here  and  there  a  devious  stairway 
mounts  to  their  crests.  Up  one  of  these  we  walked, 
noting  how  in  the  house  above  us  the  people,  with 
that  puerility  usually  mixed  with  the  Italian  love  of 
beauty,  had  placed  painted  busts  of  terra-cotta  in  the 
windows  to  simulate  persons  looking  out.  There  was 
nothing  to  blame  in  the  breakfast  we  found  ready  at 
the  Hotel  Rispoli  ;  and  as  for  the  grove  of  slender, 
graceful  orange-trees  in  the  midst  of  which  the  hotel 
stood,  and  which  had  lavished  the  fruit  in  every  di- 
rection on  the  ground,  why,  I  would  willingly  give 
for  it  all  the  currant-bushes,  with  their  promises  of 
jelly  and  jam,  on  which  I  gaze  at  this  moment. 

Antonino  attended  us  to  our  carriage  when  we 
went  away.  He  had  kept  us  all  night  at  Capri,  it  is 
true,  and  he  had  brought  us  in  at  the  end  for  a  pro- 
digious buonamano  ;  yet  I  cannot  escape  the  convic- 
tion that  he  parted  from  us  with  an  unfulfilled  pur- 
pose of  greater  plunder,  and  I  have  a  compassion, 
which  I  here  declare,  for  the  strangers  who  fell  next 
into  his  hands.  He  was  good  enough  at  the  last 
moment  to  say  that  his  name,  Silver-Eye,  was  a 
nickname  given  him  according  to  a  custom  of  the 
Sorrentines  ;  and  he  made  us  a  farewell  bow  that 
could  not  be  bought  in  America  for  money. 


CAPRI    AND   CAPRIOTES.  135 

At  the  station  of  Castellamare  sat  a  curious  cripple 
on  the  stones,  —  a  man  with  little,  short,  withered 
legs,  and  a  pleasant  face.  He  showed  us  the  ticket- 
office,  and  wanted  nothing  for  the  politeness.  After 
we  had  been  in  the  waiting-room  a  brief  time,  he 
came  swinging  himself  in  upon  his  hands,  followed  by 
another  person,  who,  when  the  cripple  had  planted 
himself  finally  and  squarely  on  the  ground,  whipped 
out  a  tape  from  his  pocket  and  took  his  measure  for 
a  suit  of  clothes,  the  cripple  twirling  and  twisting 
himself  about  in  every  way  for  the  tailor's  conven- 
ience. Nobody  was  surprised  or  amused  at  the  sight, 
and  when  his  measure  was  thus  publicly  taken,  the 
cripple  gravely  swung  himself  out  as  he  had  swung 
himself  in. 


XL 

THE  PROTESTANT  BAGGED  SCHOOLS  AT  NAPLES. 

I  HAD  the  pleasure  one  day  of  visiting  nearly  all 
the  free  schools  which  the  wise  philanthropy  of  the 
Protestant  residents  of  Naples  has  established  in  that 
city.  The  schools  had  a  peculiar  interest  for  me,  be- 
cause I  had  noticed  (in  an  un careful  fashion  enough, 
no  doubt)  the  great  changes  which  had  taken  place 
in  Italy  under  its  new  national  government,  and  was 
desirous  to  see  for  myself  the  sort  of  progress  the 
Italians  of  the  south  were  making  in  avenues  so  long 
closed  to  them.  I  believe  I  have  no  mania  for  mis- 
sionaries ;  I  have  heard  of  the  converted  Jew-and-a- 
half,  and  I  have  thought  it  a  good  joke ;  but  I  cannot 
help  offering  a  very  cordial  homage  to  the  truth  that 
the  missionaries  are  doing  a  vast  deal  of  good  in  Na- 
ples, where  they  are  not  only  spreading  the  gospel,  but 
the  spelling-book,  the  arithmetic,  and  the  geography. 

It  is  not  to  be  understood  from  the  word  mission- 
aries, that  this  work  is  done  by  men  especially  sent 
from  England  or  America  to  perform  it.  The  free 
Protestant  schools  in  Naples  are  conducted  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Evangelical  Aid  Committee,  —  com- 
posed of  members  of  the  English  Church,  the  Swiss 
Church,  and  the  Presbyterian  Church ;  the  Presi- 


PROTESTANT   RAGGED   SCHOOLS   AT  NAPLES.      137 

dent  of  this  committee  is  Dr.  Strange,  an  English- 
man, and  the  Treasurer  is  Mr.  Rogers,  the  American 
banker.  The  missionaries  in  Naples,  therefore,  are 
men  who  have  themselves  found  out  their  work  and 
appointed  themselves  to  do  it.  The  gentleman  by 
whose  kindness  I  was  permitted  to  visit  the  schools 
was  one  of  these  men,  —  the  Rev.  Mr.  Buscarlet,  the 
pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  in  Naples,  a  Swiss 
by  birth,  who  had  received  his  education  chiefly  in 
Scotland. 

He  accompanied  me  to  the  different  schools,  and  as 
we  walked  up  the  long  Toledo,  and  threaded  our 
way  through  the  sprightly  Neapolitan  crowd,  he  told 
me  of  the  origin  of  the  schools,  and  of  the  peculiar 
difficulties  encountered  in  their  foundation  and  main- 
tenance. They  are  no  older  than  the  union  of  Na- 
ples with  the  Kingdom  of  Italy,  when  toleration  of 
Protestantism  was  decreed  by  law ;  and  from  the 
first,  their  managers  proceeded  upon  a  principle  of 
perfect  openness  and  candor  with  the  parents  who 
wished  to  send  their  children  to  them.  They  an- 
nounced that  the  children  would  be  taught  certain 
branches  of  learning,  and  that  the  whole  Bible  would 
be  placed  in  their  hands,  to  be  studied  and  under- 
stood. In  spite  of  this  declaration  of  the  Protestant 
character  of  the  schools,  the  parents  of  the  chil- 
dren were  so  anxious  to  secure  them  the  benefits  of 
education,  that  they  willingly  ran  the  risk  of  their 
becoming  heretics.  They  were  principally  people  of 
the  lower  classes,  —  laborers,  hackmen,  fishermen, 
domestics,  and  very  small  shopkeepers,  but  occasion- 


138  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

ally  among  them  were  parents  able  to  send  their 
children  to  other  schools,  yet  preferring  the  thorough 
and  conscientious  system  practiced  in  these.  So  the 
children  came,  and  thanks  to  the  peaceful,  uncom- 
bative  nature  of  Italian  boys,  who  get  on  with  much 
less  waylaying  and  thumping  and  bullying  than  boys 
of  northern  blood,  they  have  not  been  molested  by 
their  companions  who  still  live  the  wild  life  of  the 
streets,  and  they  have  only  once  suffered  through  in- 
terference of  the  priests.  On  complaint  to  the  au- 
thorities the  wrong  was  promptly  redressed,  and  was 
not  again  inflicted.  Of  course  these  poor  little  peo- 
ple, picked  up  out  of  the  vileness  and  ignorance  of  a 
city  that  had  suffered  for  ages  the  most  degrading  op- 
pression, are  by  no  means  regenerate  yet,  but  there 
seems  to  be  great  hope  for  them.  Now  at  least  they 
are  taught  a  reasonable  and  logical  morality  —  and 
who  can  tell  what  wonders  the  novel  instruction  may 
not  work  ?  They  learn  for  the  first  time  that  it  is  a 
foolish  shame  to  lie  and  cheat,  and  it  would  scarcely 
be  surprising  if  some  of  them  were  finally  persuaded 
that  Honesty  is  the  best  Policy  —  a  maxim  that  few 
Italians  believe.  And  here  lies  the  trouble,  —  in  the 
unfathomable,  disheartening  duplicity  of  the  race. 
The  children  are  not  quarrelsome,  nor  cruel,  nor 
brutal ;  but  the  servile  defect  of  falsehood  fixed  by 
long  generations  of  slavery  in  the  Italians,  is  almost 
ineradicable.  The  fault  is  worse  in  Naples  than  else- 
where in  Italy ;  but  how  bad  it  is  everywhere,  not 
merely  travellers,  but  all  residents  in  Italy,  must  bear 
witness. 


PROTESTANT  RAGGED  SCHOOLS  AT  NAPLES.   139 

The  first  school  which  we  visited  was  a  girls' 
school,  in  which  some  forty-four  little  women  of  all 
ages,  from  four  to  fifteen  years,  were  assembled  un- 
der the  charge  of  a  young  Corfute  girl,  an  Italian 
Protestant,  who  had  delegated  her  authority  to  dif- 
ferent children  under  her.  The  small  maidens 
gathered  around  their  chiefs  in  groups,  and  read 
from  the  book  in  which  they  were  studying  when  we 
appeared.  Some  allowance  must  be  made  for  differ- 
ence of  the  languages,  Italian  being  logically  spelled 
and  easily  pronounced ;  but  I  certainly  never  heard 
American  children  of  their  age  read  nearly  so  well. 
They  seemed  also  to  have  a  lively  understanding  of 
what  they  read,  and  to  be  greatly  interested  in  the 
scriptural  stories  of  which  their  books  were  made  up. 
They  repeated  verses  from  the  Bible,  and  stanzas  of 
poetry,  all  very  eagerly^  and  prettily.  As  bashfulness 
is  scarcely  known  to  their  race,  they  had  no  hesita- 
tion in  showing  off  their  accomplishments  before  a 
stranger,  and  seemed  quite  delighted  with  his  ap- 
plause. They  were  not  particularly  quiet ;  perhaps 
with  young  Neapolitans  that  would  be  impossible. 
I  saw  their  copy-books,  in  which  the  writing  was 
very  good,  (I  am  sure  the  printer  would  like  mine 
to  be  as  legible,)  and  the  books  were  kept  neat  and 
clean,  as  were  the  hands  and  faces  of  the  children. 
Taking  the  children  as  one  goes  in  the  streets  of  Na- 
ples, it  would  require  a  day  perhaps  to  find  as  many 
clean  ones  as  I  saw  in  these  schools,  where  cleanli- 
ness is  resolutely  insisted  upon.  Many  of  the  chil- 
dren were  ragged ;  here  and  there  was  one  hideous 


140  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

with  ophthalmia;  but  there  was  not  a  clouded  coun- 
tenance, nor  a  dirty  hand  among  them.  We  should 
have  great  hopes  for  a  nation  of  which  the  children 
can  be  taught  to  wash  themselves. 

There  were  fourteen  pupils  in  the  boys'  superior 
school,  where  geography,  mathematics,  linear  draw- 
ing, French,  Italian  history,  and  ancient  history  were 
taught.  A  brief  examination  showed  the  boys  to  be 
well  up  in  their  studies  ;  —  indeed  they  furnished 
some  recondite  information  about  Baffin's  Bay  for 
which  I  should  not  myself  have  liked  to  be  called  on 
suddenly.  Their  drawing-books  were  prodigies  of 
neatness,  and  betrayed  that  aptness  for  form  and 
facility  of  execution  which  are  natural  to  the  Ital- 
ians. Some  of  these  boys  had  been  in  the  schools 
nearly  three  years  ;  they  were  nearly  all  of  the 
class  which  must  otherwise  have  grown  up  to  hope- 
less vagabondage ;  but  here  they  were  receiving 
gratis  an  education  that  would  fit  them  for  em- 
ployments wherein  trained  intellectual  capacity  is 
required.  If  their  education  went  no  higher  than 
this,  what  an  advance  it  would  be  upon  their  origi- 
nal condition ! 

In  the  room  devoted  to  boys  of  lower  grade,  I  en- 
tangled myself  in  difficulties  with  a  bright-eyed 
young  gentleman,  whom  I  asked  if  he  liked  Italian 
history  better  than  ancient  history.  He  said  he 
liked  the  latter,  especially  that  of  the  Romans,  much 
better.  "  Why,  that  is  strange.  I  should  think  an 
Italian  boy  would  like  Italian  history  best."  "  But 
were  not  the  Romans  also  Italians,  Signore  ?  "  1 


PROTESTANT  RAGGED   SCHOOLS   AT   NAPLES.      141 

blush  to  say  that  I  basely  sneaked  out  of  this  trouble 
by  answering  that  they  were  not  like  the  Italians  of 
the  present  day,  —  whatever  that  meant.  But  in- 
deed all  these  young  persons  were  startlingly  quick 
with  their  information,  and  knowing  that  I  knew 
very  little  on  any  subject  with  certainty,  I  think  I 
was  wise  to  refuse  all  offers  to  examine  them  in  their 
studies. 

We  left  this  school  and  returned  to  the  Toledo  by 
one  of  those  wonderful  little  side  streets  already  men- 
tioned, which  are  forever  tumultuous  with  the  oddest 
Neapolitan  life  —  with  men  quarreling  themselves 
purple  over  small  quantities  of  fish  —  with  asses 
braying  loud  and  clear  above  their  discord  —  with 
women  roasting  pine-cones  at  charcoal  fires  —  with 
children  in  the  agonies  of  having  their  hair  combed 

—  with  degraded  poultry  and  homeless  dogs  —  with 
fruit-stands  and  green  groceries,  and  the  little  edifices 
of  ecclesiastical  architecture  for  the  sale  of  lemonade 

—  with  wandering  bag-pipers,  and  herds  of  noncha- 
lant goats  —  with  horses,  and  grooms  currying  them 

—  and  over  all,  from  vast  heights  of  balcony,  with 
people  lazily  hanging  upon   rails  and  looking  down 
on  the  riot.      Re  entering  the  stream  of  the  Toledo, 
it  carried  us  almost  to  the  Museo  Borbonico  before 
we  again  struck  aside  into  one  of  the  smaller  streets, 
whence  we  climbed  quite  to  the  top  of  one  of  those 
incredibly  high  Neapolitan  houses.     Here,  crossing 
an  open  terrace  on  the  roof,  we  visited  three  small 
rooms,  in  which  there  were  altogether  some  hundred 
boys  in  the  first  stages  of  reclamation.     They  were 


142  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

under  the  immediate  superintendence  of  Mr.  Buscar- 
let,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  the  fondest  interest  in 
them.  Indeed,  there  was  sufficient  reason  for  this : 
up  to  a  certain  point,  the  Neapolitan  children  learn 
so  rapidly  and  willingly  that  it  can  hardly  be  other 
than  a  pleasure  to  teach  them.  After  this,  their 
zeal  flags  ;  they  know  enough  ;  and  their  parents  and 
friends,  far  more  ignorant  than  they,  are  perfectly 
satisfied  with  their  progress.  Then  the  difficulties 
of  their  teachers  begin ;  but  here,  in  these  lowest 
grade  schools,  they  had  not  yet  begun.  The  boys 
were  still  eager  to  learn,  and  were  ardently  following 
the  lead  of  their  teachers.  They  were  little  fellows, 
nearly  all,  and  none  of  them  had  been  in  school 
more  than  a  year  and  a  half,  while  some  had  been 
there  only  three  or  four  months.  They  rose  up 
with  "  Buon  giorno,  signori"  as  we  entered,  and 
could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  lapse  back  to  the  duties 
of  life  during  our  stay.  They  had  very  good  faces, 
indeed,  for  the  most  part,  and  even  the  vicious  had 
intellectual  brightness.  Just  and  consistent  usage 
has  the  best  influence  on  them ;  and  one  boy  was 
pointed  out  as  quite  docile  and  manageable,  whose 
parents  had  given  him  up  as  incorrigible  before  he 
entered  the  school.  As  it  was,  there  was  something 
almost  pathetic  in  his  good  behavior,  as  being  pos- 
sible to  him,  but  utterly  alien  to  his  instincts.  The 
boys  of  these  schools  seldom  play  truant,  and  they 
are  never  severely  beaten  in  school ;  when  quite  in- 
tractable, notice  is  given  to  their  parents,  and  they 
usually  return  in  a  more  docile  state.  It  sometimes 


PROTESTANT  BAGGED   SCHOOLS   AT  NAPLES.     143 

happens  that  the  boys  are  taken  away  by  their 
parents,  from  one  motive  or  another ;  but  they  find 
their  way  back  again,  and  are  received  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

The  teacher  in  the  first  room  here  is  a  handsome 
young  Calabrian,  with  the  gentlest  face  and  manner, 
—  one  of  the  most  efficient  teachers  under  Mr. 
Buscarlet.  The  boys  had  out  their  Bibles  when  we 
entered,  and  one  after  another  read  passages  to  us. 
There  were  children  of  seven,  eight,  and  nine  years, 
who  had  been  in  the  school  only  three  months,  and 
who  read  any  part  of  their  Bibles  with  facility  and 
correctness  ;  of  course,  before  coming  to  school  they 
had  not  known  one  letter  from  another.  The  most 
accomplished  scholar  was  a  youngster,  named  Sag- 
giomo,  who  had  received  eighteen  months'  schooling. 
He  was  consequently  very  quick  indeed,  and  wanted 
to  answer  all  the  hard  questions  put  to  the  other 
boys.  In  fact,  all  of  them  were  ready  enough,  and 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  writhing  and  snapping 
of  fingers  among  those  who  longed  to  answer  some 
hesitator's  question  —  just  as  you  see  in  schools  at 
home.  They  were  examined  in  geography,  and 
then  in  Bible  history  —  particularly  Joseph's  story. 
They  responded  in  chorus  to  all  demands  on  this 
part  of  study,  and  could  hardly  be  quieted  sufficiently 
to  give  Saggiomo's  little  brother,  aged  five,  a  chance 
to  tell  why  Joseph's  brethren  sold  him.  As  soon  as 
he  could  be  heard  he  piped  out :  "  Perche  Giuseppe 
aveva  dei  sogni  !  "  (Because  Joseph  had  dreams.) 
It  was  not  exactly  the  right  answer,  but  nobody 


144  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

laughed  at  the  little  fellow,  though  they  all  roared 
out  in  correction  when  permitted. 

In  the  next  room,  boys  somewhat  older  were  ex- 
amined in  Italian  history,  and  responded  correctly 
and  promptly.  They  were  given  a  sum  which  they 
performed  in  a  miraculously  short  time ;  and  their 
copy-books,  when  shown,  were  equally  creditable  to 
them.  Their  teacher  was  a  Bolognese,  —  a  natural- 
ized Swiss,  —  who  had  been  a  soldier,  and  who 
maintained  strict  discipline  among  his  irregulars, 
without,  however,  any  perceptible  terrorism. 

The  amount  of  work  these  teachers  accomplish  in 
a  day  is  incredible  :  the  boys'  school  opens  at  eight 
in  the  morning  and  closes  at  four,  with  intermission 
of  an  hour  at  noon.  Then  in  the  evening  the  same 
men  teach  a  school  for  adults,  and  on  Sunday  have 
their  classes  in  the  Sunday-schools.  And  this  the 
whole  year  round.  Their  pay  is  not  great,  being 
about  twenty  dollars  a  month,  and  they  are  evidently 
not  wholly  self-interested  from  this  fact.  The 
amount  of  good  they  accomplish  under  the  direction 
of  their  superiors  is  in  proportion  to  the  work  done. 
To  appreciate  it,  the  reader  must  consider  that  they 
take  the  children  of  the  most  ignorant  and  degraded 
of  all  the  Italians ;  that  they  cause  them  to  be 
washed  corporeally,  first  of  all,  and  then  set  about 
cleansing  them  morally  ;  and  having  cleared  away  as 
much  of  the  inherited  corruption  of  ages  as  possible, 
they  begin  to  educate  them  in  the  various  branches 
of  learning.  There  is  no  direct  proselyting  in  the 
schools,  but  the  Bible  is  the  first  study,  and  the  chil- 


PROTESTANT  BAGGED  SCHOOLS  AT  NAPLES.   145 

dren  are  constantly  examined  in  it ;  and  the  result  is 
at  least  not  superstition.  The  advance  upon  the  old 
condition  of  things  is  incalculably  great ;  for  till  the 
revolution  under  Garibaldi  in  1860,  the  schools  of 
Naples  were  all  in  the  hands  of  the  priests  or  their 
creatures,  and  the  little  learning  there  imparted  was 
as  dangerous  as  it  could  well  be  made.  Now  these 
schools  are  free,  the  children  are  honestly  and  thor- 
oughly taught,  and  if  they  are  not  directly  instructed 
in  Protestantism,  are  at  least  instructed  to  associate 
religion  with  morality,  probably  for  the  first  time  in 
their  lives.  Too  much  credit  cannot  be  given  to  the 
Italian  government  which  has  acted  in  such  good 
faith  with  the  men  engaged  in  this  work,  protecting 
them  from  all  interruption  and  persecution  ;  but  af- 
ter all,  the  great  praise  is  due  to  their  own  wise, 
unflagging  zeal.  They  have  worked  unostenta- 
tiously, making  no  idle  attacks  on  time-honored  prej- 
udices, but  still  having  a  purpose  of  enlightenment 
which  they  frankly  avowed.  The  people  whom 
they  seek  to  benefit  judge  them  by  their  works,  and 
the  result  is  that  they  have  quite  as  much  before 
them  as  they  can  do.  Their  discouragements  are 
great.  The  day's  teaching  is  often  undone  at  home ; 
the  boys  forget  as  aptly  as  they  learn  ;  and  from  the 
fact  that  only  the  baser  feelings  of  fear  and  interest 
have  ever  been  appealed  to  before  in  the  Neapolitans, 
they  have  often  to  build  in  treacherous  places  with- 
out foundation  of  good  faith  or  gratitude.  Embar- 
rassments for  want  of  adequate  funds  are  sometimes 
10 


146  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

felt  also.  But  no  one  can  study  their  operations 
without  feeling  that  success  must  attend  their  efforts, 
with  honor  to  them,  and  with  inestimable  benefits  to 
the  generation  which  shall  one  day  help  to  govern 
free  Italy. 


XII. 

BETWEEN    ROME    AND    NAPLES. 

ONE  day  it  became  plain  even  to  our  reluctance 
that  we  could  not  stay  in  Naples  forever,  and  the 
next  morning  we  took  the  train  for  Rome.  The 
Villa  Reale  put  on  its  most  alluring  charm  to  him 
that  ran  down  before  breakfast  to  thrid  once  more 
its  pathways  bordered  with  palms  and  fountains  and 
statues  ;  the  bay  beside  it  purpled  and  twinkled  in 
the  light  that  made  silver  of  the  fishermen's  sails ; 
far  away  rose  Vesuvius  with  his  nightcap  of  mist  still 
hanging  about  his  shoulders  ;  all  around  rang  and  rat- 
tled Naples.  The  city  was  never  so  fair  before,  nor 
could  ever  have  been  so  hard  to  leave  ;  and  at  the 
last  moment  the  landlord  of  the  Hotel  Washington 
must  needs  add  a  supreme  pang  by  developing  into  a 
poet,  and  presenting  me  with  a  copy  of  a  comedy  he 
had  written.  The  reader  who  has  received  at  part- 
ing from  the  gentlemanly  proprietor  of  one  of  our 
palatial  hotels  his  "  Ode  on  the  Steam  Elevator," 
will  conceive  of  the  shame  and  regret  with  which  I 
thought  of  having  upbraided  our  landlord  about  our 
rooms,  of  having  stickled  at  small  preliminaries  con- 
cerning our  contract  for  board,  and  for  having  alto- 
gether treated  him  as  one  of  the  uninspired.  Let  me 


148  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

do  him  the  tardy  justice  to  say  that  he  keeps,  after 
the  Stella  d'Oro  at  Ferrara,  the  best  hotel  in  Italy, 
and  that  his  comedy  was  really  very  sprightly.  It  is 
no  small  thing  to  know  how  to  keep  a  hotel,  as  we 
know,  and  a  poet  who  does  it  ought  to  have  a  double 
acclaim. 

Nobody  who  cares  to  travel  with  decency  and 
comfort  can  take  the  second-class  cars  on  the  road 
between  Naples  and  Rome,  though  these  are  per- 
fectly good  everywhere  else  in  Italy.  The  Papal 
city  makes  her  influence  felt  for  shabbiness  and  un- 
cleanliness  wherever  she  can,  and  her  management 
seems  to  prevail  on  this  railway.  A  glance  into  the 
second-class  cars  reconciled  us  to  the  first-class,  — 
which  in  themselves  were  bad,  —  and  we  took  our 
places  almost  contentedly. 

The  road  passed  through  the  wildest  country  we 
had  seen  in  Italy ;  and  presently  a  rain  began  to  fall 
and  made  it  drearier  than  ever.  The  land  was  much 
grown  up  with  thickets  of  hazel,  and  was  here  and 
there  sparsely  wooded  with  oaks.  Under  these,  hogs 
were  feeding  upon  the  acorns,  and  the  wet  swine- 
herds were  steaming  over  fires  built  at  their  roots. 
In  some  places  the  forest  was  quite  dense ;  in  other 
places  it  fell  entirely  away,  and  left  the  rocky  hill- 
sides bare,  and  solitary  but  for  the  sheep  that  nibbled 
at  the  scanty  grass,  and  the  shepherds  that  leaned 
upon  their  crooks  and  motionlessly  stared  at  us  as  we 
rushed  by.  As  we  drew  near  Rome,  the  scenery 
grew  lonelier  yet ;  the  land  rose  into  desolate,  ster- 
ile, stony  heights,  without  a  patch  of  verdure  on  their 


BETWEEN   ROME   AND  NAPLES.  149 

nakedness,  and  at  last  abruptly  dropped  into  the 
gloomy  expanse  of  the  Campagna. 

The  towns  along  the  route  had  little  to  interest  us 
in  their  looks,  though  at  San  Germano  we  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  famous  old  convent  of  Monte-Cassino, 
perched  aloft  on  its  cliff  and  looking  like  a  part  of  the 
rock  on  which  it  was  built.  Fancy  now  loves  to 
climb  that  steep  acclivity,  and  wander  through  the 
many-volumed  library  of  the  ancient  Benedictine  re- 
treat, and  on  the  whole  finds  it  less  fatiguing  and  cer- 
tainly less  expensive  than  actual  ascent  and  acquaint- 
ance with  the  monastery  would  have  been.  Two 
Croatian  priests,  who  shared  our  compartment  of  the 
railway  carriage,  first  drew  our  notice  to  the  place, 
and  were  enthusiastic  about  it  for  many  miles  after  it 
was  out  of  sight.  What  gentle  and  pleasant  men 
they  were,  and  how  hard  it  seemed  that  they  should 
be  priests  and  Croats  !  They  told  us  all  about  the 
city  of  Spalato,  where  they  lived,  and  gave  us  such  a 
glowing  account  of  Dalmatian  poets  and  poetry  that 
we  began  to  doubt  at  last  if  the  seat  of  literature 
were  not  somewhere  on  the  east  coast  of  the  Adri- 
atic ;  and  I  hope  we  left  them  the  impression  that 
the  literary  centre  of  the  world  was  not  a  thousand 
miles  from  the  horse-car  office  in  Harvard  Square. 

Here  and  there  repairs  were  going  forward  on  the 
railroad,  and  most  of  the  laborers  were  women. 
They  were  straight  and  handsome  girls,  and  moved 
with  a  stately  grace  under  the  baskets  of  earth  bal- 
anced on  their  heads.  Brave  black  eyes  they  had, 
such  as  love  to  look  and  to  be  looked  at ;  they  were 
not  in  the  least  hurried  by  their  work,  but  desisted 


150  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

from  it  to  gaze  at  the  passengers  whenever  the  train 
stopped.  They  all  wore  their  beautiful  peasant  cos- 
tume, —  the  square  white  linen  head-dress  falling  to 
the  shoulders,  the  crimson  bodice,  and  the  red  scant 
skirt ;  and  how  they  contrived  to  keep  themselves  so 
clean  at  their  work,  and  to  look  so  spectacular  in  it 
all,  remains  one  of  the  many  Italian  mysteries. 

Another  of  these  mysteries  we  beheld  in  the  little 
beggar-boy  at  Isoletta.  He  stood  at  the  corner  of 
the  station  quite  mute  and  motionless  during  our 
pause,  and  made  no  sign  of  supplication  or  entreaty. 
He  let  his  looks  beg  for  him.  He  was  perfectly 
beautiful  and  exceedingly  picturesque.  Where  his 
body  was  not  quite  naked,  his  jacket  and  trousers 
hung  in  shreds  and  points ;  his  long  hair  grew 
through  the  top  of  his  hat,  and  fell  over  like  a  plume. 
Nobody  could  resist  him  ;  people  ran  out  of  the  cars, 
at  the  risk  of  being  left  behind,  to  put  coppers  into 
the  little  dirty  hand  held  languidly  out  to  receive 
them.  The  boy  thanked  none,  smiled  on  none,  but 
looked  curiously  and  cautiously  at  all,  with  the  quick 
perception  and  the  illogical  conclusions  of  his  class 
and  race.  As  we  started  he  did  not  move,  but  re- 
mained in  his  attitude  of  listless  tranquillity.  As  we 
glanced  back,  the  mystery  of  him  seemed  to  be 
solved  for  a  moment :  he  would  stand  there  till  he 
grew  up  into  a  graceful,  prayerful,  pitiless  brigand, 
and  then  he  would  rend  from  travel  the  tribute  now 
so  freely  given  him.  But  after  all,  though  his  future 
seemed  clear,  and  he  appeared  the  type  of  a  strange 
and  hardly  reclaimable  people,  he  was  not  quite  a 
solution  of  the  Neapolitan  puzzle. 


XIII. 

ROMAN   PEARLS. 
I. 

THE  first  view  of  the  ruins  in  the  Forum  brought 
a  keen  sense  of  disappointment.  I  knew  that  they 
could  only  be  mere  fragments  and  rubbish,  but  I  was 
not  prepared  to  find  them  so.  I  learned  that  I  had 
all  along  secretly  hoped  for  some  dignity  of  neighbor- 
hood, some  affectionate  solicitude  on  the  part  of  Na- 
ture to  redeem  these  works  of  Art  from  the  destruction 
that  had  befallen  them.  But  in  hollows  below  the 
level  of  the  dirty  cowfield,  wandered  over  by  evil- 
eyed  buffaloes,  and  obscenely  defiled  by  wild  beasts 
of  men,  there  stood  here  an  arch,  there  a  pillar,  yon- 
der a  cluster  of  columns  crowned  by  a  bit  of  frieze ; 
and  yonder  again,  a  fragment  of  temple,  half-gorged 
by  the  facade  of  a  hideous  Renaissance  church  ;  then 
a  height  of  vaulted  brick-work,  and,  leading  on  to  the 
Coliseum,  another  arch,  and  then  incoherent  columns 
overthrown  and  mixed  with  dilapidated  walls  —  mere 
phonographic  consonants,  dumbly  representing  the 
past,  out  of  which  all  vocal  glory  had  departed.  The 
Coliseum  itself  does  not  much  better  express  a  cer- 
tain phase  vof  Roman  life  than  does  the  Arena  at 
Verona ;  it  is  larger  only  to  the  foot-rule,  and  it 


152  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

seemed  not  grander  otherwise,  while  it  is  vastly 
more  ruinous.  Even  the  Pantheon  failed  to  impress 
me  at  first  sight,  though  I  found  myself  disposed  to 
return  to  it  again  and  again,  and  to  be  more  and  more 
affected  by  it. 

Modern  Rome  appeared,  first  and  last,  hideous. 
It  is  the  least  interesting  town  in  Italy,  and  the  archi- 
tecture is  hopelessly  ugly  —  especially  the  architect- 
ure of  the  churches.  The  Papal  city  contrives  at 
the  beginning  to  hide  the  Imperial  city  from  your 
thought,  as  it  hides  it  in  such  a  great  degree  from 
your  eye,  and  old  Rome  only  occurs  to  you  in  a  sort 
of  stupid  wonder  over  the  depth  at  which  it  is  buried. 
I  confess  that  I  was  glad  to  get  altogether  away 
from  it  after  a  first  look  at  the  ruins  in  the  Forum, 
and  to  take  refuge  in  the  Conservatorio  delle  Mendi- 
canti,  where  we  were  charged  to  see  the  little  Vir- 
ginia G.  The  Conservatorio,  though  a  charitable  in- 
stitution, is  not  so  entirely  meant  for  mendicants  as  its 
name  would  imply,  but  none  of  the  many  young  girls 
there  were  the  children  of  rich  men.  They  were 
often  enough  of  parentage  actually  hungry  and  rag- 
ged, but  they  were  often  also  the  daughters  of  honest 
poor  folk,  who  paid  a  certain  sum  toward  their 
maintenance  and  education  in  the  Conservatorio. 
Such  was  the  case  with  little  Virginia,  whose  father 
was  at  Florence,  doubly  impeded  from  seeing  her  by 
the  fact  that  he  had  fought  against  the  Pope  for  the 
Republic  of  1848,  and  by  the  other  fact  that  he  had 
since  wrought  the  Pope  a  yet  deadlier  injury  by  turn- 
ing Protestant. 


ROMAN   PEARLS.  153 

Ringing  a  garrulous  bell  that  continued  to  jingle 
some  time  after  we  were  admitted,  we  found  our- 
selves in  a  sort  of  reception-room,  of  the  general 
quality  of  a  cellar,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  portress 
who  was  perceptibly  preserved  from  mold  only  by 
the  great  pot  of  coals  that  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  place.  Some  young  girls,  rather  pretty  than 
not,  attended  the  ancient  woman,  and  kindly  acted 
as  the  ear-trumpet  through  which  our  wishes  were 
conveyed  to  her  mind.  The  Conservatorio  was  not, 
so  far,  as  conventual  as  we  had  imagined  it ;  but  as 
the  gentleman  of  the  party  was  strongly  guarded 
by  female  friends,  and  asked  at  once  to  see  the  Su- 
perior, he  concluded  that  there  was,  perhaps,  some- 
thing so  unusually  reassuring  to  the  recluses  in  his 
appearance  and  manner  that  they  had  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  behave  very  rigidly.  It  later  occurred  to 
this  gentleman  that  the  promptness  with  which  the 
pretty  mendicants  procured  him  an  interview  with  the 
Superior  had  a  flavor  of  self-interest  in  it,  and  that 
he  who  came  to  the  Conservatorio  in  the  place  of  a  fa- 
ther might  have  been  for  a  moment  ignorantly  viewed 
as  a  yet  dearer  and  tenderer  possibility.  From  what- 
ever danger  there  was  in  this  error  the  Superior  soon 
appeared  to  rescue  him,  and  we  were  invited  into  a 
more  ceremonious  apartment  on  the  first  floor,  and 
the  little  Virginia  was  sent  for.  The  visit  of  the 
strangers  caused  a  tumult  and  interest  in  the  quiet 
old  Conservatorio  of  which  it  is  hard  to  conceive 
now,  and  the  excitement  grew  tremendous  when  it 
appeared  that  the  signori  were  Ainericani  and  Prot- 


154  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

estanti.  We  imparted  a  savor  of  novelty  and  im- 
portance to  Virginia  herself,  and  when  she  appeared, 
the  Superior  and  her  assistant  looked  at  her  with  no 
small  curiosity  and  awe,  of  which  the  little  maiden 
instantly  became  conscious,  and  began  to  take  ad- 
vantage. Accompanying  us  over  the  building  and 
through  the  grounds,  she  cut  her  small  friends 
wherever  she  met  them,  and  was  not  more  than 
respectful  to  the  assistant. 

It  was  from  an  instinct  of  hospitality  that  we  were 
shown  the  Conservatorio,  and  instructed  in  regard  to 
all  its  purposes.  We  saw  the  neat  dormitories  with 
their  battalions  of  little  white  beds  ;  the  kitchen  with 
its  gigantic  coppers  for  boiling  broth,  and  the  refec- 
tory with  the  smell  of  the  frugal  dinners  of  genera- 
tions of  mendicants  in  it.  The  assistant  was  very 
proud  of  the  neatness  of  every  thing,  and  was  glad 
to  talk  of  that,  or,  indeed,  any  thing  else.  It  ap- 
peared that  the  girls  were  taught  reading,  writing, 
and  plain  sewing  when  they  were  young,  and  that 
the  Conservatorio  was  chiefly  sustained  by  pious 
contributions  and  bequests.  Any  lingering  notion 
of  the  conventual  character  of  the  place  was  dispelled 
by  the  assistant's  hurrying  to  say,  "And  when  we 
can  get  the  poor  things  well  married,  we  are  glad 
to  do  so." 

"  But  how  does  any  one  ever  see  them  ?  " 
"  Eh !    well,    that   is   easily   managed.       Once   a 
month  we  dress  the  marriageable  girls  in  their  best, 
and  take  them  for  a  walk  in  the  street.     If  an  hon- 
est young  man  falls  in  love  with  one  of  them  going 


BOM  AN   PEARLS.  155 

by,  he  comes  to  the  Superior,  and  describes  her  as 
well  as  he  can,  and  demands  to  see  her.  She  is 
called,  and  if  both  are  pleased,  the  marriage  is  ar- 
ranged. You  see  it  is  a  very  simple  affair." 

And  there  was,  to  the  assistant's  mind,  nothing  odd 
in  the  whole  business,  insomuch  that  I  felt  almost 
ashamed  of  marveling  at  it. 

Issuing  from  the  backdoor  of  the  convent,  we  as- 
cended by  stairs  and  gateways  into  garden  spaces, 
chiefly  planted  with  turnips  and  the  like  poor  but 
respectable  vegetables,  and  curiously  adorned  with 
fragments  of  antique  statuary,  and  here  and  there  a 
fountain  in  a  corner,  trickling  from  moss-grown  rocks, 
and  falling  into  a  trough  of  travertine,  about  the  feet 
of  some  poor  old  goddess  or  Virtue  who  had  forgot- 
ten what  her  name  was. 

Once,  the  assistant  said,  speaking  as  if  the  thing 
had  been  within  her  recollection,  though  it  must 
have  been  centuries  before,  the  antiquities  of  the 
Conservatorio  were  much  more  numerous  and  strik- 
ing ;  but  they  were  now  removed  to  the  different 
museums.  Nevertheless  they  had  still  a  beautiful 
prospect  left,  which  we  were  welcome  to  enjoy  if  we 
would  follow  her  ;  and  presently,  to  our  surprise,  we 
stepped  from  the  garden  upon  the  roof  of  the  Temple 
of  Peace.  The  assistant  had  not  boasted  without 
reason :  away  before  us  stretched  the  Campagna,  a 
level  waste,  and  empty,  but  for  the  umbrella-palms 
that  here  and  there  waved  like  black  plumes  upon 
it,  and  for  the  arched  lengths  of  the  acqueducts  that 
seemed  to  stalk  down  from  the  ages  across  the 


156  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

melancholy  expanse  like  files  of  giants,  with  now 
and  then  a  ruinous  gap  in  the  line,  as  if  one  had 
fallen  out  weary  by  the  way.  The  city  all  around 
us  glittered  asleep  in  the  dim  December  sunshine, 
and  far  below  us,  —  on  the  length  of  the  Forum  over 
which  the^Appian  Way  stretched  from  the  Capito- 
line  Hill  under  the  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus  and 
the  Arch  of  Titus  to  the  Arch  of  Constantino,  leav- 
ing the  Coliseum  on  the  left,  and  losing  itself  in 
the  foliage  of  the  suburbs,  —  the  Past  seemed  strug- 
gling to  emerge  from  the  ruins,  and  to  reshape 
and  animate  itself  anew.  The  effort  was  more  suc- 
cessful than  that  which  we  had  helped  the  Past  to 
make  when  standing  on  the  level  of  the  Forum  ; 
but  Antiquity  must  have  been  painfully  conscious  of 
the  incongruity  of  the  red-legged  Zouaves  wander- 
ins  over  the  grass,  and  of  the  bewildered  tourists 

O  O  * 

trying  to  make  her  out  with  their  Hurrays. 

In  a  day  or  two  after  this  we  returned  again  to 
our  Conservatorio,  where  we  found  that  the  excite- 
ment created  by  our  first  visit  had  been  kept  fully 
alive  by  the  events  attending  the  photographing  of 
Virginia  for  her  father.  Not  only  Virginia  was 
there  to  receive  us,  but  her  grandmother  also  —  an 
old,  old  woman,  dumb  through  some  infirmity  of 
age,  who  could  only  weep  and  smile  in  token  of  her 
content.  I  think  she  had  but  a  dim  idea,  after  all, 
of  what  went  on  beyond  the  visible  fact  of  Virginia's 
photograph,  and  that  she  did  not  quite  understand 
how  we  could  cause  it  to  be  taken  for  her  son. 
She  was  deeply  compassionated  by  the  Superior,  who 


ROMAN    PEARLS.  157 

rendered  her  pity  with  a  great  deal  of  gesticulation, 
casting  up  her  eyes,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  and 
sighing  grievously.  But  the  assistant's  cheerfulness 
could  not  be  abated  even  by  the  spectacle  of  extreme 
age ;  and  she  made  the  most  of  the  whole  occasion, 
recounting  with  great  minuteness  all  the  incidents  of 
the  visit  to  the  photographer's,  and  running  to  get 
the  dress  Virginia  sat  in,  that  we  might  see  how  ex- 
actly it  was  given  in  the  picture.  Then  she  gave  us 
much  discourse  concerning  the  Conservatorio  and  its 
usages,  and  seemed  not  to  wish  us  to  think  that  life 
there  was  altogether  eventless.  "  Here  we  have  a 
little  amusement  also,"'  she  said.  "  The  girls  have 
their  relatives  to  visit  them  sometimes,  and  then  in 
the  evening  they  dance.  Oh,  they  enjoy  themselves  ! 
I  am  half  old  (mezzo-vecchia).  I  am  done  with 
these  things.  But  for  youth,  always  kept  down, 
something  lively  is  wanted." 

When  we  took  leave  of  these  simple  folks,  we 
took  leave  of  almost  the  only  natural  and  unprepared 
aspect  of  Italian  life  which  we  were  to  see  in  Rome ; 
but  we  did  not  know  this  at  the  time. 


n. 

INDEED,  it  seems  to  me  that  all  moisture  of  ro- 
mance and  adventure  has  been  wellnigh  sucked  out 
of  travel  in  Italy,  and  that  compared  with  the  old 
time,  when  the  happy  wayfarer  journeyed  by  vettura 
through  the  innumerable  little  states  of  the  Penin- 
sula, -—  halted  every  other  mile  to  show  his  passport, 


158  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

and  robbed  by  customs  officers  in  every  color  of 
shabby  uniform  and  every  variety  of  cocked  hat,  — 
the  present  railroad  period  is  one  of  but  stale  and 
insipid  flavor.  Much  of  local  life  and  color  re- 
mains, of  course ;  but  the  hurried  traveller  sees  little 
of  it,  and,  passed  from  one  grand  hotel  to  another, 
without  material  change  in  the  cooking  or  the  meth- 
ods of  extortion,  he  might  nearly  as  well  remain  at 
Paris.  The  Italians,  who  live  to  so  great  extent  by 
the  travel  through  their  country,  learn  our  abomina- 
ble languages  and  minister  to  our  detestable  comfort 
and  propriety,  till  we  have  slight  chance  to  know 
them  as  we  once  could,  —  musical,  picturesque,  and 
full  of  sweet,  natural  knaveries,  graceful  falsehood, 
and  all  uncleanness.  Rome  really  belongs  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  nations,  and  the  Pope  and  the  past 
seem  to  be  carried  on  entirely  for  our  diversion. 
Every  thing  is  systematized  as  thoroughly  as  in  a 
museum  where  the  objects  are  all  ticketed ;  and  our 
prejudices  are  consulted  even  down  to  alms-giving. 
Honest  Beppo  is  gone  from  the  steps  in  the  Piazza,  di 
Spagna,  and  now  the  beggars  are  labeled  like  police- 
men, with  an  immense  plate  bearing  the  image  of  St. 
Peter,  so  that  you  may  know  you  give  to  a  worthy 
person  when  you  bestow  charity  on  one  of  them,  and 
not,  alas !  to  some  abandoned  impostor,  as  in  former 
days.  One  of  these  highly  recommended  mendicants 
gave  the  last  finish  to  the  system,  and  begged  of  us 
in  English  !  No  custodian  will  answer  you,  if  he 
can  help  it,  in  the  Italian  which  he  speaks  so  ex- 
quisitely, preferring  to  speak  bad  French  instead ; 


ROMAN  PEARLS.  159 

and  in  all  the  shops  on  the  Corso  the  English  tongue 
is  de  rigueur. 

After  our  dear  friends  at  the  Conservatorio,  I  think 
we  found  one  of  the  most  simple  and  interesting  of 
Romans  in  the  monk  who  showed  us  the  Catacombs 
of  St.  Sebastian.  These  catacombs,  he  assured  us, 
were  not  restored  like  those  of  St.  Calixtus,  but 
were  just  as  the  martyrs  left  them  ;  and,  as  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  read  anywhere  that  they  are 
formed  merely  of  long,  low,  narrow,  wandering  un- 
der-ground passages,  lined  on  either  side  with  tombs 
in  tiers  like  berths  on  a  steamer,  and  expanding  here 
and  there  into  small  square  chambers,  bearing  the 
traces  of  ancient  frescos,  and  evidently  used  as  chap- 
els, —  I  venture  to  offer  the  information  here.  The 
reader  is  to  keep  in  his  mind  a  darkness  broken  by 
the  light  of  wax  tapers,  a  close  smell,  and  crookedness 
and  narrowness,  or  he  cannot  realize  the  catacombs 
as  they  are  in  fact.  Our  monkish  guide,  before  en- 
tering the  passage  leading  from  the  floor  of  the  church 
to  the  tombs,  in  which  there  was  still  some  "  fine 
small  dust "  of  the  martyrs,  warned  us  that  to  touch 
it  was  to  incur  the  penalty  of  excommunication,  and 
then  gently  craved  pardon  for  having  mentioned  the 
fact.  But,  indeed,  it  was  only  to  persons  who  showed 
a  certain  degree  of  reverence  that  these  places  were 
now  exhibited  ;  for  some  Protestants  who  had  been 
permitted  there  had  stolen  handfuls  of  the  precious 
ashes,  merely  to  throw  away.  I  assured  him  that  I 
thought  them  beasts  to  do  it ;  and  I  was  afterwards 
puzzled  to  know  what  should  attract  their  wantonness 


160  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

in  the  remnants  of  mortality,  hardly  to  be   distin- 
guished from  the  common   earth  out  of  which  the 


catacombs  were  dug. 


in. 

RETURNING  to  the  church  above  we  found,  kneel- 
ing before  one  of  the  altars,  two  pilgrims,  —  a  man 
and  a  woman.  The  latter  was  habited  in  a  nun- 
like  dress  of  black,  and  the  former  in  a  long  pilgrim's 
coat  of  coarse  blue  stuff.  He  bore  a  pilgrim's  staff  in 
his  hand,  and  showed  under  his  close  hood  a  fine, 
handsome,  reverent  face,  full  of  a  sort  of  tender  awe, 
touched  with  the  pathos  of  penitence.  In  attendance 
upon  the  two  was  a  dapper  little  silk-hatted  man, 
with  rogue  so  plainly  written  in  his  devotional  coun- 
tenance that  I  was  not  surprised  to  be  told  that  he 
was  a  species  of  spiritual  valet  de  place,  whose  occu- 
pation it  was  to  attend  pilgrims  on  their  tour  to  the 
Seven  Churches  at  which  these  devotees  pray  in 
Rome,  and  there  to  direct  their  orisons  and  join  in 
them. 

It  was  not  to  the  pilgrims,  but  to  the  heretics  that 
the  monk  now  uncovered  the  precious  marble  slab  on 
which  Christ  stood  when  he  met  Peter  flying  from 
Rome  and  turned  him  back.  You  are  shown  the 
prints  of  the  divine  feet,  which  the  conscious  stone 
received  and  keeps  forever ;  and  near  at  hand  is  one 
of  the  arrows  with  which  St.  Sebastian  was  shot. 
We  looked  at  these  things  critically,  having  to  pay 
for  the  spectacle ;  but  the  pilgrims  and  their  guide 
were  all  faith  and  wonder. 


ROMAN   PEARLS.  161 

I  remember  seeing  nothing  else  so  finely  super- 
stitious at  Rome.  In  a  chapel  near  the  Church  of 
St.  John  Late  ran  are,  as  is  well  known,  the  marble 
steps  which  once  belonged  to  Pilate's  house,  and 
which  the  Saviour  is  said  to  have  ascended  when  he 
went  to  trial  before  Pilate.  The  steps  are  protected 
against  the  wear  and  tear  of  devotion  by  a  stout 
casing  of  wood,  and  they  are  constantly  covered  with 
penitents,  who  ascend  and  descend  them  upon  their 
knees.  Most  o£  the  pious  people  whom  I  saw  in  this 
act  were  children,  and  the  boys  enjoyed  it  with  a 
good  deal  of  giggling,  as  a  very  amusing  feat.  Some 
old  and  haggard  women  gave  the  scene  all  the  dignity 
which  it  possessed ;  but  certain  well-dressed  ladies 
and  gentlemen  were  undeniably  awkward  and  ab- 
surd, and  I  was  led  to  doubt  if  there  were  not  an 
incompatibility  between  the  abandon  of  simple  faith 
and  the  respectability  of  good  clothes. 

IV. 

IN  all  other  parts  of  Italy  one  hears  constant  talk 
among  travellers  of  the  malaria  at  Rome,  and  having 
seen  a  case  of  Roman  fever,  I  know  it  is  a  thing 
not  to  be  trifled  with.  But  in  Rome  itself  the  mala- 
ria is  laughed  at  by  the  foreign  residents,  —  who, 
nevertheless,  go  out  of  the  city  in  midsummer.  The 
Romans,  to  the  number  of  a  hundred  thousand  or  so, 
remain  there  the  whole  year  round,  and  I  am  bound 
to  say  I  never  saw  a  healthier,  robuster-looking  popu- 
lation. The  cheeks  of  tho  French  soldiers,  too,  whom 
11 


162  ITALIAN    JOURNEYS. 

we  met  at  every  turn,  were  red  as  their  trousers,  and 
they  seemed  to  flourish  on  the  imputed  unwholesome- 
ness  of  the  atmosphere.  All  at  Rome  are  united  in 
declaring  that  the  fever  exists  at  Naples,  and  that 
sometimes  those  who  have  taken  it  there  come  and 
die  in  Rome,  in  order  to  give  the  city  a  bad  name  ; 
and  I  think  this  very  likely. 

Rome  is  certainly  dirty,  however,  though  there 
is  a  fountain  in  every  square,  and  you  are  never 
out  of  the  sound  of  falling  water.  The  Corso 
and  some  of  the  principal  streets  do  not  so  much  im- 
press you  with  their  filth  as  with  their  dullness ; 
but  that  part  of  the  city  where  some  of  the  most 
memorable  relics  of  antiquity  are  to  be  found  is  un- 
imaginably vile.  The  least  said  of  the  state  of 
the  archways  of  the  Coliseum  the  soonest  mended ; 
and  I  have  already  spoken  of  the  Forum.  The 
streets  near  the  Theatre  of  Pompey  are  almost  im- 
passable, and  the  so-called  House  of  Rienzi  is  a  stable, 
fortified  against  approach  by  a  fosse  of  excrement. 
A  noisome  smell  seems  to  be  esteemed  the  most  ap- 
propriate offering  to  the  memory  of  ancient  Rome, 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  the  moderns  are  mistaken  in 
this.  In  the  rascal  streets  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  most  august  ruins,  the  people  turn  round  to  stare 
at  the  stranger  as  he  passes  them  ;  they  are  all  dirty, 
and  his  decency  must  be  no  less  a  surprise  to  them 
than  the  neatness  of  the  French  soldiers  amid  all  the 
filth  is  a  puzzle  to  him.  We  wandered  about  a  long 
time  in  such  places  one  day,  looking  for  the  Tarpeian 
Rock,  less  for  Tarpeia's  sake  than  for  the  sake  of 


ROMAN  PEARLS.  163 

Miriam  and  Donatello  and  the  Model.  There  are 
two  Tarpeian  rocks,  between  which  the  stranger 
takes  his  choice ;  and  we  must  have  chosen  the 
wrong  one,  for  it  seemed  but  a  shallow  gulf  com- 
pared to  that  in  our  fancy.  We  were  somewhat  dis- 
appointed ;  but  then  Niagara  disappoints  one ;  and  as 
for  Mont  Blanc 


v. 

IT  is  worth  while  for  every  one  who  goes  to  Rome 
to  visit  the  Church  of  St.  Peter's ;  but  it  is  scarcely 
worth  while  for  me  to  describe  it,  or  for  every  one 
to  go  up  into  the  bronze  globe  on  the  top  of  the 
cupola.  In  fact,  this  is  a  great  labor,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  be  seen  from  the  crevices  in  the  ball 
which  cannot  be  far  more  comfortably  seen  from  the 
roof  of  the  church  below. 

The  companions  of  our  ascent  to  the  latter  point 
were  an  English  lady  and  gentleman,  brother  and 
sister,  and  both  Catholics,  as  they  at  once  told  us. 
The  lady  and  myself  spoke  for  some  time  in  the 
Tuscan  tongue  before  we  discovered  that  neither  of 
us  was  Italian,  after  which  we  paid  each  other  some 
handsome  compliments  upon  fluency  and  perfection 
of  accent.  The  gentleman  was  a  pleasant  purple 
porpoise  from  the  waters  of  Chili,  whither  he  had 
wandered  from  the  English  coasts  in  early  youth. 
He  had  two  leading  ideas  :*  one  concerned  the  Pope, 
to  whom  he  had  just  been  presented,  and  whom  he 
viewed  as  the  best  and  blandest  of  beings ;  the  other 


164  ITALIAN    JOURNEYS. 

related  to  his  boy,  then  in  England,  whom  he  called 
Jack  Spratt,  and  considered  the  grandest  and  great- 
est of  boys.  With  the  view  from  the  roof  of  the 
church  this  gentleman  did  not  much  trouble  himself. 
He  believed  Jack  Spratt  could  ride  up  to  the  roof 
where  we  stood  on  his  donkey.  As  to  the  great 
bronze  globe  which  we  were  hurrying  to  enter,  he 
seemed  to  regard  it  merely  as  a  rival  in  rotundity, 
and  made  not  the  slightest  motion  to  follow  us. 

I  should  be  loth  to  vex  the  reader  with  any  de- 
scription of  the  scene  before  us  and  beneath  us,  even 
if  I  could  faithfully  portray  it.  But  I  recollect,  with 
a  pleasure  not  to  be  left  unrecorded,  the  sweetness 
of  the  great  fountain  playing  in  the  square  before  the 
church,  and  the  harmony  in  which  the  city  grew  in 
every  direction  from  it,  like  an  emanation  from  its 
music,  till  the  last  house  sank  away  into  the  pathetic 
solitude  of  the  Campagna,  with  nothing  beyond  but 
the  snow-capped  mountains  lighting  up  the  remotest 
distance.  At  the  same  moment  I  experienced  a  rap- 
ture in  reflecting  that  I  had  underpaid  three  hack- 
men  during  my  stay  in  Rome,  and  thus  contributed 
to  avenge  my  race  for  ages  of  oppression. 

The  vastness  of  St.  Peter's  itself  is  best  felt  in 
looking  down  upon  the  interior  from  the  gallery  that 
surrounds  the  inside  of  the  dome,  and  in  comparing 
one's  own  littleness  with  the  greatness  of  all  the 
neighboring  mosaics.  But  as  to  the  beauty  of  the 
temple,  I  could  not  find  it,without  or  within. 


ROMAN  PEARLS.  165 


VI. 

IN  Rome  one's  fellow -tourists  are  a  constant 
source  of  gratification  and  surprise.  I  thought  that 
American  travellers  were  by  no  means  the  most  ab- 
surd among  those  we  saw,  nor  even  the  loudest  in 
their  approval  of  the  Eternal  City.  A  certain  orcjer 
of  German  greenness  affords,  perhaps,  the  pleasant- 
est  pasturage  for  the  ruminating  mind.  For  example, 
at  the  Villa  Ludovisi  there  was,  beside  numerous 
Englishry  in  detached  bodies,  a  troop  of  Germans, 
chiefly  young  men,  frugally  pursuing  the  Sehens- 
wiirdigkeiten  in  the  social  manner  ofrtheir  nation. 
They  took  their  enjoyment  very  noisily,  and  wran- 
gled together  with  furious  amiability  as  they  looked 
at  Guercino's  "  Aurora."  Then  two  of  them  parted 
from  the  rest,  and  went  to  a  little  summer-house  in 
the  gardens,  while  the  others  followed  us  to  the  top 
of  the  Casino.  There  they  caught  sight  of  their 
friends  in  the  arbor,  and  the  spectacle  appeared  to 
overwhelm  them.  They  bowed,  they  took  off  their 
hats,  they  waved  their  handkerchiefs.  It  was  not 
enough  :  one  young  fellow  mounted  on  the  balus- 
trade of  the  roof  at  his  neck's  risk,  lifted  his  hat  on 
his  cane  and  flourished  it  in  greeting  to  the  heart's- 
friends  in  the  arbor,  from  whom  he  had  parted  two 
minutes  before. 

In  strange  contrast  to  the  producer  of  this  enthusi- 
asm, so  pumped  and  so  unmistakably  mixed  with  beer, 
a  fat  and  pallid  Englishwoman  sat  in  a  chair  upon 
the  roof  and  coldly,  coldly  sketched  the  lovely  land- 


166  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

scape.  And  she  and  the  blonde  young  English  girl 
beside  her  pronounced  a  little  dialogue  together,  winch 
I  give,  because  I  saw  that  they  meant  it  for  the  public : 

The  Young  Girl.  —  I  wonder,  you  knoa,  you  don't 
draw-ow  St.  Petuh's ! 

The  Artist.  —  O  ah,  you  knoa,  I  can  draw-ow  St. 
Petuh's  from  so  mennee  powints. 

I  am  afraid  that  the  worst  form  of  American  green- 
ness appears  abroad  in  a  desire  to  be  perfectly  up  in 
critical  appreciation  of  the  arts,  and  to  approach  the 
great  works  in  the  spirit  of  the  connoisseur.  The 
ambition  is  not  altogether  a  bad  one.  Still  I  could 
not  help  laughing  at  a  fellow-countryman  when  he 
told  me  that  he  had  not  yet  seen  Raphael's  "  Trans- 
figuration," because  he  wished  to  prepare  his  mind 
for  understanding  the  original  by  first  looking  at  all 
the  copies  he  could  find. 


VII. 

THE  Basilica  San  Paolo  fuori  le  Mura  surpasses 
every  thing  in  splendor  of  marble  and  costly  stone  — 
porphyry,  malachite,  alabaster  —  and  luxury  of  gild- 
ing that  is  to  be  seen  at  Rome.  But  I  chiefly  remem- 
ber it  because  on  the  road  that  leads  to  it,  through 
scenes  as  quiet  and  peaceful  as  if  history  had  never 
known  them,  lies  the  Protestant  graveyard  in  which 
Keats  is  buried.  Quite  by  chance  the  driver  men- 
tioned it,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  cemetery 
with  his  whip.  We  eagerly  dismounted  and  repaired 
to  the  gate,  where  we  were  met  by  the  son  of  the 
sexton,  who  spoke  English  through  the  beauteous  line 


ROMAN  PEARLS.  167 

of  a  curved  Hebrew  nose.  Perhaps  a  Christian  could 
not  be  found  in  Rome  to  take  charge  of  these  here- 
tic graves,  though  Christians  can  be  got  to  do  almost 
any  thing  there  for  money.  However,  I  do  not  think 
a  Catholic  would  have  kept  the  place  in  better  order, 
or  more  intelligently  understood  our  reverent  curi- 
osity. It  was  the  new  burial-ground  which  we  had 
entered,  and  which  is  a  little  to  the  right  of  the  elder 
cemetery.  It  was  very  beautiful  and  tasteful  in  every 
way ;  the  names  upon  the  stones  were  chiefly  Eng- 
lish and  Scotch,  with  here  and  there  an  American's. 
But  affection  drew  us  only  to  the  prostrate  tablet  in- 
scribed with  the  words,  "  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  Cor 
Cordium,"  and  then  we  were  ready  to  go  to  the 
grave  of  him  for  whom  we  all  feel  so  deep  a  tender- 
ness. The  grave  of  John  Keats  is  one  of  few  in  the 
old  burying-ground,  and  lies  almost  in  the  shadow  of 
the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius  ;  and  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  wonder  the  Roman  would  have  felt 
could  he  have  known  into  what  unnamable  richness 
and  beauty  his  Greek  faith  had  ripened  in  the  heart 
of  the  poor  poet,  where  it  was  mixed  with  so  much 
sorrow.  Doubtless,  in  his  time,  a  prominent  citizen 
like  Caius  Cestius  was  a  leading  member  of  the 
temple  in  his  neighborhood,  and  regularly  attended 
sacrifice  :  it  would  have  been  but  decent ;  and  yet  I 
fancied  that  a  man  immersed  like  him  in  affairs  might 
have  learned  with  surprise  the  inner  and  more  fra- 
grant meaning  of  the  symbols  with  the  outside  of 
which  his  life  was  satisfied  ;  and  I  was  glad  to  reflect 
that  in  our  day  such  a  thing  is  impossible. 


168  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

The  grave  of  our  beloved  poet  is  sunken  to  the 
level  of  the  common  earth,  and  is  only  marked  by 
the  quaintly  lettered,  simple  stone  bearing  the  famous 
epitaph.  While  at  Rome  I  heard  talk  of  another 
and  grander  monument  which  some  members  of  the 
Keats  family  were  to  place  over  the  dust  of  their 
great  kinsman.  But,  for  one,  I  hope  this  may  never 
be  done,  even  though  the  original  stone  should  also 
be  left  there,  as  was  intended.  Let  the  world  still 
keep  unchanged  this  shrine,  to  which  it  can  repair 
with  at  once  pity  and  tenderness  and  respect. 

A  rose-tree  and  some  sweet-smelling  bushes  grew 
upon  the  grave,  and  the  roses  were  in  bloom.  We 
asked  leave  to  take  one  of  them ;  but  at  last  could 
only  bring  ourselves  to  gather  some  of  the  fallen 
petals.  Our  Hebrew  guide  was  willing  enough,  and 
unconsciously  set  us  a  little  example  of  wantonness  ; 
for  while  he  listened  to  our  explanation  of  the  mys- 
tery which  had  puzzled  him  ever  since  he  had  learned 
English,  namely,  why  the  stone  should  say  "  writ  on 
water,"  and  not  written,  he  kept  plucking  mechan- 
ically at  one  of  the  fragrant  shrubs,  pinching  away 
the  leaves,  and  rending  the  tender  twig,  till  I,  re- 
membering the  once -sensitive  dust  from  which  it 
grew,  waited  for  the  tortured  tree  to  cry  out  to 
him  with  a  voice  of  words  and  blood,  "  Perche  mi 
schianti  ?  " 

VIII. 

IT  seems  to  me  that  a  candid  person  will  wish  to 
pause  a  little  before  condemning  Gibson's  colored 


ROMAN   PEARLS.  169 

statues.  They  have  been  grossly  -misrepresented. 
They  do  not  impress  one  at  all  as  wax-work,  and 
there  is  great  wrong  in  saying  that  their  tinted  na- 
kedness suggests  impurity  any  more  than  tliQ  white 
nakedness  of  other  statues.  The  coloring  is  quite 
conventional ;  the  flesh  is  merely  warmed  with  the 
hue  representing  life ;  the  hair  is  always  a  very  deli- 
cate yellow,  the  eyes  a  tender  violet,  and  there  is  no 
other  particularization  of  color ;  a  fillet  binding  the 
hair  may  be  gilded,  —  the  hem  of  a  robe  traced  in 
blue.  I,  who  had  just  come  from  seeing  the  frag- 
ments of  antique  statuary  in  Naples  Museum,  tinted 
in  the  same  way,  could  not  feel  that  there  was  any 
thing  preposterous  in  Gibson's  works,  and  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  say  that  they  gave  me  pleasure. 

As  we  passed,  in  his  studio,  from  one  room  to  an- 
other, the  workman  who  showed  the  marbles  sur- 
prised and  delighted  us  by  asking  if  we  would  like  to 
see  the  sculptor,  and  took  us  up  into  the  little  room 
where  Gibson  worked.  He  was  engaged  upon  a 
bass-relief,  —  a  visit  of  Psyche  to  the  Zephyrs,  or 
something  equally  aerial  and  mythological,  —  and  re- 
ceived us  very  simply  and  naturally,  and  at  once 
began  with  some  quaint  talk  about  the  subject  in 
hand.  When  we  mentioned  our  pleasure  in  his 
colored  marbles  we  touched  the  right  spring,  and  he 
went  on  to  speak  of  his  favorite  theory  with  visible 
delight,  making  occasional  pauses  to  bestow  a  touch 
on  the  bass-relief,  and  coming  back  to  his  theme  with 
that  self-corroborative  "  Yes  !  "  of  his,  which  Haw- 
thorne has  immortalized.  He  was  dressed  with  ex- 


170  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

traordinary  slovenliness  and  indifference  to  clothes  ; 
had  no  collar,  I  think,  and  evidently  did  not  know 
what  he  had  on.  Every  thing  about  him  hespoke 
the  utmost  unconsciousness  and  democratic  plainness 
of  life,  so  that  I  could  readily  believe  a  story  I  heard 
of  him.  Having  dined  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in 
Roman  restaurants,  where  it  is  but  wholesome  to  go 
over  your  plate,  glass,  spoon,  and  knife  and  fork  witli 
your  napkin  before  using  them,  the  great  sculptor  had 
acquired  such  habits  of  neatness  that  at  table  in  the 
most  aristocratic  house  in  England  he  absent-mind- 
edly went  through  all  that  ceremony  of  cleansing  and 
wiping.  It  is  a  story  they  tell  in  Rome,  where  every 
body  is  anecdoted,  and  not  always  so  good-naturedly. 


IX. 

ONE  Sunday  afternoon  we  went  with  some  artistic 
friends  to  visit  the  studio  of  the  great  German  paint- 
er, Overbeck ;  and  since  I  first  read  Uhland  I  have 
known  no  pleasure  so  illogical  as  I  felt  in  looking  at 
this  painter's  drawings.  In  the  sensuous  heart  of 
objective  Italy  he  treats  the  themes  of  medieval 
Catholicism  with  the  most  subjective  feeling,  and  I 
thought  I  perceived  in  his  work  the  enthusiasm 
which  led  many  Protestant  German  painters  and 
poets  of  the  romantic  school  back  into  the  twilight 
of  the  Romish  faith,  in  the  hope  that  they  might 
thus  realize  to  themselves  something  of  the  ear- 
nestness which  animated  the  elder  Christian  artists. 
Overbeck's  work  is  beautiful,  but  it  is  unreal,  and 


ROMAN   PEARLS.  171 

expresses  the  sentiment  of  no  time ;  as  the  work  of 
the  romantic  German  poets  seems  without  relation 
to  any  world  men  ever  lived  in. 

Walking  from  the  painter's  house,  two  of  us 
parted  with  the  rest  on  the  steps  of  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  and  pursued  our  stroll 
through  the  gate  of  San  Lorenzo  out  upon  the 
Campagna,  wrhich  tempts  and  tempts  the  sojourner 
at  Rome,  until  at  last  he  must  go  and  see  —  if  it 
will  give  him  the  fever.  And,  alas !  there  I  caught 
the  Roman  fever  —  the  longing  that  burns  one  who 
has  once  been  in  Rome  to  go  again  —  that  will  not 
be  cured  by  all  the  cool  contemptuous  things  he 
may  think  or  say  of  the  Eternal  City ;  that  fills  him 
with  fond  memories  of  its  fascination,  and  makes  it 
forever  desired. 

We  walked  far  down  the  dusty  road  beyond  the 
city  walls,  and  then  struck  out  from  the  highway 
across  the  wild  meadows  of  the  Campagna.  They 
were  weedy  and  desolate,  seamed  by  shaggy  grass- 
grown  ditches,  and  deeply  pitted  with  holes  made  in 
search  for  catacombs.  There  was  here  and  there  a 
farm-house  amid  the  wide  lonesomeness,  but  oftener 
a  round,  hollow,  roofless  tomb,  from  which  the  dust 
and  memory  of  the  dead  had  long  been  blown  away, 
and  through  the  top  of  which  —  fringed  and  over- 
hung with  grasses,  and  opening  like  a  great  eye  — 
the  evening  sky  looked  marvelously  sad.  One  of 
the  fields  was  full  of  grim,  wide-horned  cattle,  and 
in  another  there  were  four  or  five  buffaloes  lying 
down  and  chewing  their  cuds,  —  holding  their  heads 


172  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

horizontally  in  the  air,  and  with  an  air  of  gloomy 
wickedness  which  nothing  could  exceed  in  their 
cruel  black  eyes,  glancing  about  in  visible  pursuit  of 
some  object  to  toss  and  gore.  There  were'  also  many 
canebrakes,  in  which  the  wind  made  a  mournful 
rustling  after  the  sun  had  set  in  golden  glitter  on  the 
roofs  of  the  Roman  churches  and  the  transparent 
night  had  fallen  upon  the  scene. 

In  all  our  ramble  we  met  not  a  soul,  and  I  scarcely 
know  what  it  is  makes  this  walk  upon  the  Campagna 
one  of  my  vividest  recollections  of  Rome,  unless  it 
be  the  opportunity  it  gave  me  to  weary  myself  upon 
that  many-memoried  ground  as  freely  as  if  it  had 
been  a  woods-pasture  in  Ohio.  Nature,  where  his- 
tory was  so  august,  was  perfectly  simple  and  moth- 
erly, and  did  so  much  to  make  me  at  home,  that,  as 
the  night  thickened  and  we  plunged  here  tind  there 
into  ditches  and  climbed  fences,  and  struggled,  heavy- 
footed,  back  through  the  suburbs  to  the  city  gate,  I 
felt  as  if  half  my  boyhood  had  been  passed  upon 
the  Campagna. 


x. 

PASQUINO,  like  most  other  great  people,  is  not  very 
interesting  upon  close  approach.  There  is  no  trace 
now  in  his  aspect  to  show  that  he  has  ever  been 
satirical ;  but  the  humanity  that  the  sculptor  gave  him 
is  imperishable,  though  he  has  lost  all  character  as  a 
public  censor.  The  torso  is  at  first  glance  nothing 
but  a  shapeless  mass  of  stone,  but  the  life  can  never 


ROMAN  PEARLS.  173 

die  out  of  that  which  has  been  shaped  by  art  to 
the  likeness  of  a  man,  arid  a  second  look  restores 
the  lump  to  full  possession  of  form  and  expression. 
For  this  reason  I  lament  that  statues  should  ever 
be  restored  except  by  sympathy  and  imagination. 


XI. 

REGARDING  the  face  of  Pompey's  statue  in  the 
Spada  Palace,  I  was  more  struck  than  ever  with  a 
resemblance  to  American  politicians  which  I  had 
noted  in  all  the  Roman  statues.  It  is  a  type  of 
face  not  now  to  be  found  in  Rome,  but  frequent 
enough  here,  and  rather  in  the  South  than  in  the 
North.  Pompey  was  like  the  pictures  of  so  many 
Southern  Congressmen  that  I  wondered  whether 
race  had  not  less  to  do  with  producing  types  than 
had  similarity  of  circumstances  ;  whether  a  republi- 
canism based  upon  slavery  could  not  so  far  assimi- 
late character  as  to  produce  a  common  aspect  in 
people  widely  separated  by  time  and  creeds,  but  hav- 
ing the  same  unquestioned  habits  of  command,  and 
the  same  boundless  and  unscrupulous  ambition. 


XII. 

WHEN  the  Tiber,  according  to  its  frequent  habit, 
rises  and  inundates  the  city,  the  Pantheon  is  one  of 
the  first  places  to  be  flooded  —  the  sacristan  told 
us.  The  water  climbs  above  the  altar-tops,  sapping, 
in  its  recession,  the  cement  of  the  fine  marbles  which 


174  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

incrust  the  columns,  so  that  about  their  bases  the 
pieces  have  to  be  continually  renewed.  Nothing 
vexes  you  so  much  in  the  Pantheon  as  your  con- 
sciousness of  these  and  other  repairs.  Bad  as  ruin 
is,  I  think  I  would  rather  have  the  old  temple  ru- 
inous in  every  part  than  restored  as  you  find  it. 
The  sacristan  felt  the  wrongs  of  the  place  keenly, 
and  said,  referring  to  the  removal  of  the  bronze 
roof,  which  took  place  some  centuries  ago,  "  They 
have  robbed  us  of  every  thing"  (C7  hanno  levato 
tutto) ;  as  if  he  and  the  Pantheon  were  of  one  blood, 
and  he  had  suffered  personal  hurt  in  its  spoliation. 

What  a  sense  of  the  wildness  everywhere  lurk- 
ing about  Rome  we  had  given  us  by  that  group  of 
peasants  who  had  built  a  fire  of  brushwood  almost 
within  the  portico  of  the  Pantheon,  and  were  cook- 
ing their  supper  at  it,  the  light  of  the  flames  luridly 
painting  their  swarthy  faces  ! 


XIII. 

POOR  little  Numero  Cinque  Via  del  Gambero  has 
seldom,  I  imagine,  known  so  violent  a  sensation  as 
that  it  experienced  when,  on  the  day  of  the  Immac- 
ulate Conception,  the  Armenian  Archbishop  rolled 
up  to  the  door  in  his  red  coach.  The  master  of  the 
house  had  always  seemed  to  like  us  ;  now  he  ap- 
peared with  profound  respect  suffusing,  as  it  were, 
his  whole  being,  and  announced,  "  Signore,  it  is 
Monsignore  come  to  take  you  to  the  Sistine  Chapel 
in  his  carriage,"  and  drew  himself  up  in  a  line,  as 


ROMAN  PEARLS.  175 

much  like  a  series  of  serving-men  as  possible,  to 
let  us  pass  out.  There  was  a  private  carriage  for 
the  ladies  near  that  of  Monsignore,  for  he  had  al- 
ready advertised  us  that  the  sex  were  not  permitted 
to  ride  in  the  red  coach.  As  they  appeared,  how- 
ever, he  renewed  his  expressions  of  desolation  at 
being  deprived  of  their  company,  and  assured  them 
of  his  good- will  with  a  multiplicity  of  smiles  and 
nods,  intermixed  with  shrugs  of  recurrence  to  his 
poignant  regret.  But !  In  fine,  it  was  forbidden  ! 
Monsignore  was  in  full  costume,  with  his  best  ec- 
clesiastical clothes  on,  and  with  his  great  gold  chain 
about  his  neck.  The  dress  was  richer  than  that  of 
the  western  archbishops ;  and  the  long  white  beard 
of  Monsiornore  made  him  look  much  more  like  a 

& 

Scriptural  monsignore  than  these.  He  lacked,  per- 
haps, the  fine  spiritual  grace  of  his  brother,  the 
Archbishop  at  Venice,  to  whose  letter  of  introduc- 
tion we  owed  his  acquaintance  and  untiring  civili- 
ties; but  if  a  man  cannot  be  plump  and  spiritual, 
he  can  be  plump  and  pleasant,  as  Monsignore  was  to 
the  last  degree.  He  enlivened  our  ride  with  dis- 
course about  the  Armenians  at  Venice,  equally  be- 
loved of  us  ;  and,  arrived  at  the  Sistine  Chapel,  he 
marshaled  the  ladies  before  him,  and  won  them  early 
entrance  through  the  crowd  of  English  people  crush- 
ing one  another  at  the  door.  Then  he  laid  hold  upon 
the  captain  of  the  Swiss  Guard,  who  was  swift  to 
provide  them  with  the  best  places ;  and  in  nowise 
did  he  seem  one  of  the  uninfluential  and  insignificant 
priests  that  About  describes  the  archbishops  at  Rome 


176  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

to  be.  According  to  this  lively  author,  a  Swiss  guard 
was  striking  back  the  crowd  on  some  occasion  with 
the  butt  of  his  halberd,  and  smote  a  cardinal  on  the 
breast.  He  instantly  dropped  upon  his  knees,  with 
"  Pardon,  Eminenza  !  I  thought  it  was  a  mon- 
signore  !  "  Even  the  chief  of  these  handsome  fellows 
had  nothing  but  respect  and  obedience  for  our  Arch- 
bishop. 

The  gentlemen  present  were  separated  from  the 
ladies,  and  in  a  very  narrow  space  outside  of  the 
chapel  men  of  every  nation  were  penned  up  together. 
All  talked  —  several  priests  as  loudly  as  the  rest. 
But  the  rudest  among  them  were  certain  Germans, 
who  not  only  talked  but  stood  upon  a  seat  to  see 
better,  and  were  ordered  down  by  one  of  the  Swiss 
with  a  fierce  "  Griu,  signore,  giu  !  "  Otherwise  the 
guard  kept  good  order  in  the  chapel,  and  were  no 
doubt  as  useful  and  genuine  as  any  thing  about  the 
poor  old  Pope.  What  gorgeous  fellows  they  were, 
and,  as  soldiers,  how  absurd  !  The  weapons  they 
bore  were  as  obsolete  as  the  excommunication.  It 
was  amusing  to  pass  one  of  these  play-soldiers  on 
guard  at  the  door  of  the  Vatican  —  tall,  straight, 
beautiful,  superb,  with  his  halberd  on  his  shoulder  — 
and  then  come  to  a  real  warrior  outside,  a  little,  ugly, 
red-legged  French  sentinel,  with  his  Minie*  on  his 
arm. 

Except  for  the  singing  of  the  Pope's  choir— which 
was  angelically  sweet,  and  heavenly  far  above  all 
praise  —  the  religious  ceremonies  affected  me,  like 
all  others  of  that  faith,  as  tedious  and  empty.  Each 


ROMAN  PEARLS.  177 

of  the  cardinals,  as  he  entered  the  chapel,  blew  a 
sonorous  nose ;  and  was  received  standing  by  his 
brother  prelates  —  a  grotesque  company  of  old-wom- 
anish old  men  in  gaudy  gowns.  One  of  the  last  to 
come  was  Antonelli,  who  has  the  very  wickedest  face 
in  the  world.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  fastened  upon  his 
book,  but  obviously  open  at  every  pore  to  all  that 
went  on  about  him.  As  he  passed  out  he  cast  gleam- 
ing, terrible,  sidelong  looks  upon  the  people,  full  of 
hate  and  guile. 

From  where  I  stood  I  saw  the  Pope's  face  only  in 
profile  :  it  was  gentle  and  benign  enough,  but  not 
great  in  expression,  and  the  smile  on  it  almost  de- 
generated into  a  simper.  His  Holiness  had  a  cold  ; 
and  his  recitative,  though  full,  was  not  smooth.  He 
was  all  priest  when,  in  the  midst  of  the  service,  he 
hawked,  held  his  handkerchief  up  before  his  face,  a 
little  way  off,  and  ruthlessly  spat  in  it  I 

12 


FORZA    MAGGIORE. 


I  IMAGINE  that  Grossetto  is  not  a  town  much 
known  to  travel,  for  it  is  absent  from  all  the  guide- 
books I  have  looked  at.  However,  it  is  chief  in  the 
Maremma,  where  sweet  Pia  de'  Tolommei  lan- 
guished and  perished  of  the  poisonous  air  and  her 
love's  cruelty,  and  where,  so  many  mute  centuries 
since,  the  Etrurian  cities  flourished  and  fell.  Further, 
one  may  say  that  Grossetto  is  on  the  diligence  road 
from  Civita  Vecchia  to  Leghorn,  and  that  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  place  there  is  a  lovely  palm-tree,  rare, 
if  not  sole,  in  that  latitude.  This  palm  stands  in  a 
well-sheltered,  dull  little  court,  out  of  every  thing's 
way,  and  turns  tenderly  toward  the  wall  that  shields 
it  on  the  north.  It  has  no  other  company  but  a  beau- 
tiful young  girl,  who  leans  out  of  a  window  high 
over  its  head,  and  I  have  no  doubt  talks  with  it.  At 
the  moment  we  discovered  the  friends,  the  maiden 
was  looking  pathetically  to  the  northward,  while  the 
palm  softly  stirred  and  opened  its  plumes,  as  a  bird 
does  when  his  song  is  finished  ;  and  there  is  very  lit- 
tle question  but  it  had  just  been  singing  to  her  that 
song  of  which  the  palms  are  so  fond,  — 

"  Ein  Fichtenbaum  steht  einsam 
Im  Norden  auf  kahler  HohV 


FORZA  MAGGIORE.  179 

Grossetto  does  her  utmost  to  hide  the  secret  of  this 
tree's  existence,  as  if  a  hard,  matter-of-fact  place 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  a  sentimentality  of  the  kind. 
It  pretended  to  be  a  very  worldly  town,  and  tried  to 
keep  us  in  the  neighborhood  of  its  cathedral,  where 
the  caffS  and  shops  are,  and  where,  in  the  evening, 
four  or  five  officers  of  the  garrison  clinked  their  sa- 
bres on  the  stones,  and  promenaded  up  and  down, 
and  as  many  ladies  shopped  for  gloves  ;  and  as  many 
citizens  sat  at  the  principal  caff£  and  drank  black 
coffee.  This  was  lively  enough  ;  and  we  knew  that 
the  citizens  were  talking  of  the  last  week's  news  and 
the  Roman  question ;  that  the  ladies  were  really 
looking  for  loves,  not  gloves ;  that  such  of  the  offi- 
cers as  had  no  local  intrigue  to  keep  their  hearts 
at  rest  were  terribly  bored,  and  longed  for  Florence 
or  Milan  or  Turin. 

Besides  the  social  charms  of  her  piazza,  Grossetto 
put  forth  others  of  an  artistic  nature.  The  cathedral 
was  very  old  and  very  beautiful,  —  built  of  alternate 
lines  of  red  and  white  marble,  and  lately  restored  in 
the  best  spirit  of  fidelity  and  reverence.  But  it  was 
not  open,  and  we  were  obliged  to  turn  from  it  to  the 
group  of  statuary  in  the  middle  of  the  piazza,  repre- 
sentative of  the  Maremma  and  Family  returning 
thanks  to  the  Grand  Duke  Leopold  III.  of  Tuscany 
for  his^goodness  in  causing  her  swamps  to  be  drained. 
The  Maremma  and  her  children  are  arrayed  in  the 
scant  draperies  of  Allegory,  but  the  Grand  Duke  is 
fully  dressed,  and  is  shown  looking  down  with  some 
surprise  at  their  figures,  and  with  a  visible  doubt 


180  ITALIAN    JOUENEYS. 

of  the  propriety  of  their  public  appearance  in  that 
state. 

There  was  also  a  Museum  at  Grossetto,  and  I  won- 
der what  was  in  it  ? 

The  wall  of  the  town  was  perfect  yet,  though  the 
moat  at  its  feet  had  been  so  long  dry  that  it  was  only 
to  be  known  from  the  adjacent  fields  by  the  richness 
of  its  soil.  The  top  of  the  wall  had  been  leveled, 
and  planted  with  shade,  and  turned  into  a  peaceful 
promenade,  like  most  of  such  medieval  defenses  in 
Italy  ;  though  I  am  not  sure  that  a  little  military  life 
did  not  still  linger  about  a  bastion  here  and  there. 
From  somewhere,  when  we  strolled  out  early  in  the 
morning,  to  walk  upon  the  wall,  there  came  to  us  a 
throb  of  drums ;  but  I  believe  that  the  only  armed 
men  we  saw,  beside  the  officers  in  the  piazza,  were 
the  numerous  sportsmen  resorting  at  that  season  to 
Grossetto  for  the  excellent  shooting  in  the  marshes. 
All  the  way  to  Florence  we  continued  to  meet  them 
and  their  dogs  ;  and  our  inn  at  Grossetto  overflowed 
with  abundance  of  game.  On  the  kitchen  floor  and 
in  the  court  were  heaps  of  larks,  pheasants,  quails, 
and  beccafichi,  at  which  a  troop  of  scullion-boys  con- 
stantly plucked,  and  from  which  the  great,  noble, 
beautiful,  white-aproned  cook  forever  fried,  stewed, 
broiled,  and  roasted.  We  lived  chiefly  upon  these 
generous  birds  during  our  sojourn,  and  found,  when 
we  attempted  to  vary  our  bill  of  fare,  that  the  very 
genteel  waiter  attending  us  had  few  distinct  ideas 
beyond  them.  He  was  part  of  the  repairs  and  im- 
provements which  that  hostelry  had  recently  under- 


FORZA   MAGGIORE.  181 

gone,  and  had  evidently  come  in  with  the  four- 
pronged  forks,  the  chromo  -  lithographs  of  Victor 
Emanuel,  Garibaldi,  Solferino,  and  Magenta  in  the 
large  dining-room,  and  the  iron  stove  in  the  small 
one.  He  had  nothing,  evidently,  in  common  with 
the  brick  floors  of  the  bed-chambers,  and  the  ancient 
rooms  with  great  fire-places.  He  strove  to  give  a 
Florentine  blandishment  to  the  rusticity  of  life  in  the 
Maremma ;  and  we  felt  sure  that  he  must  know 
what  beefsteak  was.  When  we  ordered  it,  he  as- 
sumed to  be  perfectly  conversant  with  it,  started  to 
bring  it,  paused,  turned,  and,  with  a  great  sacrifice 
of  personal  dignity,  demanded,  "  Bifsteca  di  manzo, 
o  Ufsteca  di  motone  f "  — "  Beefsteak  of  beef,  or 
beefsteak  of  mutton  ?  " 

Of  Grossetto  proper,  this  is  all  I  remember,  if  I 
except  a  boy  whom  I  heard  singing  after  dark  in  the 
streets,  — 

"  Camicia  rossa,  O  Garibaldi !  " 

The  cause  of  our  sojourn  there  was  an  instance  of 
forza  maggiore,  as  the  agent  of  the  diligence  com- 
pany defiantly  expressed  it,  in  refusing  us  damages 
for  our  overturn  into  the  river.  It  was  in  the  early 
part  of  the  winter  when  we  started  from  Rome  for 
Venice,  and  we  were  traveling  northward  by  dili- 
gence because  the  railways  were  still  more  or  less 
interrupted  by  the  storms  and  floods  predicted  of 
Matthieu  de  la  Drome,  —  the  only  reliable  prophet 
France  has  produced  since  Voltaire  ;  —  and  if  our 
accident  was  caused  by  an  overruling  Providence,  the 
company,  according  to  the  very  law  of  its  existence, 


182  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

was  not  responsible.  To  be  sure,  we  did  not  see  how 
an  overruling  Providence  was  to  blame  for  loading 
upon  our  diligence  the  baggage  of  two  diligences, 
or  for  the  clumsiness  of  our  driver ;  but  on  the  other 
hand,  it  is  certain  that  the  company  did  not  make 
it  rain  or  cause  the  inundation.  And,  in  fine, 
although  we  could  not  have  traveled  by  railway,  we 
were  masters  to  have  taken  the  steamer  instead  of 
the  diligence  at  Civita  Vecchia. 

The  choice  of  either  of  these  means  of  travel  had 
presented  itself  in  vivid  hues  of  disadvantage  all  the 
way  from  Rome  to  the  Papal  port,  where  the  French 
steamer  for  Leghorn  lay  dancing  a  hornpipe  upon 
the  short,  chopping  waves,  while  we  approached  by 
railway.  We  had  leisure  enough  to  make  the  deci- 
sion, if  that  was  all  we  wanted.  Our  engine-driver 
had  derived  his  ideas  of  progress  from  an  Encyclical 
Letter,  and  the  train  gave  every  promise  of  arriving 
at  Civita  Vecchia  five  hundred  years  behind  time. 
But  such  was  the  desolating  and  depressing  influence 
of  the  weather  and  the  landscape,  that  we  reached 
Civita  Vecchia  as  undecided  as  we  had  left  Rome. 
On  the  one  hand,  there  had  been  the  land,  soaked 
and  sodden,  —  wild,  shagged  with  scrubby  growths 
of  timber  and  brooded  over  by  sullen  clouds,  and 
visibly  inhabited  only  by  shepherds,  leaning  upon 
their  staves  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  and 
looking,  in  their  immovable  dejection,  with  their  legs 
wrapped  in  long-haired  goat-skins,  like  satyrs  that 
had  been  converted,  and  were  trying  to  do  right ; 
turning  dim  faces  to  us,  they  warned  us  with  every 


FORZA   MAGGIOBE.  183 

mute  appeal  against  the  land,  as  a  waste  of  mud 
from  one  end  of  Italy  to  the  other.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  was  the  sea-wind  raving  about  our  train 
and  threatening  to  blow  it  over,  and  whenever  we 
drew  near  the  coast,  heaping  the  waves  upon  the 
beach  in  thundering  menace. 

We  weakly  and  fearfully  remembered  our  former 
journeys  by  diligence  over  broken  railway  routes  ; 
we  recalled  our  cruel  voyage  from  Genoa  to  Naples 
by  sea ;  and  in  a  state  of  pitiable  dismay  we  ate  five 
francs'  worth  at  the  restaurant  of  the  Civita  Vecchia 
station  before  we  knew  it,  and  long  before  we  had 
made  up  our  minds.  Still  we  might  have  lingered 
and  hesitated,  and  perhaps  returned  to  Rome  at  last, 
but  for  the  dramatic  resolution  of  the  old  man  who 
solicited  passengers  for  the  diligence,  and  carried 
their  passports  for  a  final  Papal  visa  at  the  police- 
office.  By  the  account  he  gave  of  himself,  he  was 
one  of  the  best  men  in  the  world,  and  unique  in 
those  parts  for  honesty  and  truthfulness ;  and  he  be- 
sought us,  out  of  that  affectionate  interest  with  which 
our  very  aspect  had  inspired  him,  not  to  go  by 
steamer,  but  to  go  by  diligence,  which  in  nineteen 
hours  would  land  us  safe,  and  absolutely  refreshed  by 
the  journey,  at  the  railway  station  in  Follonica. 
And  now,  once,  would  we  go  by  diligence  ?  twice, 
would  we  go  ?  three  times,  would  we  go  ? 

"  Signore,"  said  our  benefactor,  angrily,  "  I  lose 
my  time  with  you  ;  "  and  ran  away,  to  be  called- 
back  in  the  course  of  destiny,  as  he  knew  well 
enough,  and  besought  to  take  us  as  a  special  favor. 


184  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

From  the  passports  he  learned  that  there  was  offi- 
cial dignity  among  us,  and  addressed  the  unworthy 
bearer  of  public  honors  as  Eccellenza,  and,  at  parting 
bequeathed  his  advantage  to  the  conductor,  commend- 
ing us  all  in  set  terms  to  his  courtesy.  He  hovered 
caressingly  about  us  as  long  as  we  remained,  strain- 
ing politeness  to  do  us  some  last  little  service  ;  and 
when  the  diligence  rolled  away,  he  did  all  that  one 
man  could  to  give  us  a  round  of  applause. 

We  laughed  together  at  this  silly  old  man,  when 
out  of  sight ;  but  we  confessed  that,  if  travel  in  our 
own  country  ever  came,  with  advancing  corruption, 
to  be  treated  with  the  small  deceits  practiced  upon  it 
in  Italy,  it  was  not  likely  to  be  treated  with  the  small 
civilities  also  there  attendant  on  it,  —  and  so  tried  to 
console  ourselves. 

At  the  moment  of  departure,  we  were  surprised  to 
have  enter  the  diligence  a  fellow-countryman,  whom 
we  had  first  seen  on  the  road  from  Naples  to  Rome. 
He  had  since  crossed  our  path  with  that  iteration  of 
travel  which  brings  you  again  and  again  in  view  of 
the  same  trunks  and  the  same  tourists  in  the  round 
of  Rurope,  and  finally  at  Civita  Vecchia  he  had 
turned  up,  a  silent  spectator  of  our  scene  with  the 
agent  of  the  diligence,  and  had  gone  off  apparently 
a  confirmed  passenger  by  steamer.  Perhaps  a  nearer 
view  of  the  sailor's  hornpipe,  as  danced  by  that  ves- 
sel in  the  harbor,  shook  his  resolution.  At  any  rate, 
here  he  was  again,  and  with  his  ticket  for  Follonica, 
—  a  bright-eyed,  rosy-cheeked  man,  and  we  will  say 
a  citizen  of  Portland,  though  he  was  not.  For  the 


FORZA  MAGGIORE.  185 

first  time  in  our  long  acquaintance  with  one  another's 
faces,  we  entered  into  conversation,  and  wondered 
whether  we  should  find  brigands  or  any  thing  to  eat 
on  the  road,  without  expectation  of  finding  either. 
In  respect  of  robbers,  we  were  not  disappointed ;  but 
shortly  after  nightfall  we  stopped  at  a  lonely  post- 
house  to  change  horses,  and  found  that  the  landlord 
had  so  far  counted  on  our  appearance  as  to  have,  just 
roasted  and  fragrantly  fuming,  a  leg  of  lamb,  with 
certain  small  fried  fish,  and  a  sufficiency  of  bread. 
It  was  a  very  lonely  place  as  I  say  ;  the  sky  was 
gloomy  overhead  ;  and  the  wildness  of  the  landscape 
all  about  us  gave  our  provision  quite  a  gamy  flavor  ; 
and  brigands  could  have  added  nothing  to  our  sense 
of  solitude. 

The  road  creeps  along  the  coast  for  some  distance 
from  Civita  Vecchia,  within  hearing  of  the  sea,  and 
nowhere  widely  forsakes  it,  I  believe,  all  the  way  to 
Follonica.  The  country  is  hilly,  and  we  stopped 
every  two  hours  to  change  horses  ;  at  which  times 
we  looked  out,  and,  seeing  that  it  was  a  gray  and 
windy  night,  though  not  rainy,  exulted  that  we  had 
not  taken  the  steamer.  With  very  little  change, 
the  wisdom  of  our  decision  in  favor  of  the  diligence 
formed  the  burden  of  our  talk  during  the  whole 
night ;  and  to  think  of  eluded  sea-sickness  requited 
us  in  the  agony  of  our  break-neck  efforts  to  catch  a 
little  sleep,  as,  mounted  upon  our  nightmares,  we 
rode  steeple-chases  up  and  down  the  highways 
and  by-ways  of  horror.  Any  thing  that  absolutely 
awakened  us  was  accounted  a  blessing ;  and  I  re- 


186  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

member  few  things  in  life  with  so  keen  a  pleasure  as 
the  summons  that  came  to  us  to  descend  from  our 
places  and  cross  a  river  in  one  boat,  while  the  two 
diligences  of  our  train  followed  in  another.  Here 
we  had  time  to  see  our  fellow-passengers,  as  the  pul- 
sating light  of  their  cigars  illumined  their  faces,  and 
to  discover  among  them  that  Italian,  common  to  all 
large  companies,  who  speaks  English,  and  is  very 
eager  to  practice  it  with  you,  —  who  is  such  a  bene- 
factor if  you  do  not  know  his  own  language,  and 
such  a  bore  if  you  do.  After  this,  being  landed,  it 
was  rapture  to  stroll  up  and  down  the  good  road,  and 
feel  it  hard  and  real  under  our  feet,  and  not  an  abys- 
mal impalpability,  while  all  the  grim  shapes  of  our 
dreams  fled  to  the  spectral  line  of  small  boats  sus- 
taining the  ferry-barge,  and  swaying  slowly  from  it 
as  the  drowned  men  at  their  keels  tugged  them 
against  the  tide. 

"  SJ  accommodino,  Signori ! "  cries  the  cheerful 
voice  of  the  conductor,  and  we  ascend  to  our  places 
in  the  diligence.  The  nightmares  are  brought  out 
again ;  we  mount,  and  renew  the  steeple-chase  as  be- 
fore. 

Suddenly,  it  all  comes  to  an  end,  and  we  sit  wide 
awake  in  the  diligence,  amid  a  silence  only  broken 
by  the  hiss  of  rain  against  the  windows,  and  the 
sweep  of  gusts  upon  the  roof.  The  diligence  stands 
still ;  there  is  no  rattle  of  harness,  nor  other  sound 
to  prove  that  we  have  arrived  at  the  spot  by  other 
means  than  dropping  from  the  clouds.  The  idea 
that  we  are  passengers  in  the  last  diligence  destroyed 


FORZA  MAGGIORE.  187 

before  the  Deluge,  and  are  now  waiting  our  fate  on 
the  highest  ground  accessible  to  wheels,  fades  away 
as  the  day  dimly  breaks,  and  we  find  ourselves 
planted,  as  the  Italians  say,  on  the  banks  of  another 
river.  There  is  no  longer  any  visible  conductor,  the 
horses  have  been  spirited  away,  the  driver  has  van- 
ished. 

"The  rain  beats  and  beats  upon  the  roof,  and  begins 
to  drop  through  upon  us  in  great,  wrathful  tears, 
while  the  river  before  us  rushes  away  with  a  mo- 
mently swelling  flood.  Enter  now  from  the  depths 
of  the  storm  a  number  of  rainy  peasants,  with  our 
conductor  and  driver  perfectly  waterlogged,  and 
group  themselves  on  the  low,  muddy  shore,  near  a 
flat  ferry-barge,  evidently  wanting  but  a  hint  of 
forza  maggiore  to  go  down  with  any  thing  put  into  it. 
A  moment  they  dispute  in  pantomime,  sending  now 
and  then  a  windy  tone  of  protest  and  expostulation 
to  our  ears,  and  then  they  drop  into  a  motionless  si- 
lence, and  stand  there  in  the  tempest,  not  braving  it, 
but  enduring  it  with  the  pathetic  resignation  of  their 
race,  as  if  it  were  some  form  of  hopeless  political  op- 
pression. At  last  comes  the  conductor  to  us  and  says, 
It  is  impossible  for  our  diligences  to  cross  in  the  boat, 
and  he  has  sent  for  others  to  meet  us  on  the  opposite 
shore.  He  expected  them  long  before  this,  but  we 
see  !  They  are  not  come.  Patience  and  malediction  ! 
Remaining  planted  in  these  unfriendly  circum- 
stances from  four  o'clock  till  ten,  we'  have  still  the 
effrontery  to  be  glad  that  we  did  not  take  the  steamer. 
What  a  storm  that  must  be  at  sea !  When  at  last 


188  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

our  connecting  diligences  appear  on  the  other  shore, 
we  are  almost  light-hearted,  and  make  a  jest  of  the 
Ombrone,  as  we  perilously  pass  it  in  the  ferry-boat 
too  weak  for  our  diligences.  Between  the  landing 
and  the  vehicles  there  is  a  space  of  heavy  mud  to 
cross,  and  when  we  reach  them  we  find  the  coupe 
appointed  us  occupied  by  three  young  Englishmen, 
who  insist  that  they  shall  be  driven  to  the  boat. 
With  that  graceful  superiority  which  endears  their 
nation  to  the  world,  and  makes  the  traveling  Eng- 
lishman a  universal  favorite,  they  keep  the  seats  to 
which  they  have  no  longer  any  right,  while  the  tem- 
pest drenches  the  ladies  to  whom  the  places  belong ; 
and  it  is  only  by  theforza  maggiore  of  our  conductor 
that  they  can  be  dislodged.  In  the  mean  time  the 
Portland  man  exchanges  with  them  the  assurances 
of  personal  and  national  esteem,  which  that  mighty 
bond  of  friendship,  the  language  of  Shakespeare  and 
Milton,  enables  us  to  offer  so  idiomatically  to  our 
transatlantic  cousins. 

What  Grossetto  was  like,  as  we  first  rode  through 
it,  we  scarcely  looked  to  see.  In  four  or  five  hours 
we  should  strike  the  railroad  at  Follonica ;  and  we 
merely  asked  of  intermediate  places  that  they  should 
not  detain  us.  We  dined  in  Grossetto  at  an  inn  of 
the  Larthian  period,  —  a  cold  inn  and  a  damp,  which 
seemed  never  to  have  been  swept  since  the  broom 
dropped  from  the  grasp  of  the  last  Etrurian  cham- 
bermaid,—  and  we  ate  with  the  two-pronged  iron 
forks  of  an  extinct  civilization.  All  the  while  we 
dined,  a  boy  tried  to  kindle  a  fire  to  warm  us,  and 


FORZA   MAGGIORE.  189 

beguiled  his  incessant  failures  with  stories  of  inunda- 
tion on  the  road  ahead  of  us.  But  we  believed  him  so 
little,  that  when  he  said  a  certain  stream  near  Gros- 
setto  was  impassable,  our  company  all  but  hissed  him. 

When  we  left  the  town  and  hurried  into  the  open 
country,  we  perceived  that  he  had  only  too  great 
reason  to  be  an  alarmist.  Every  little  rill  was  risen, 
and  boiling  over  with  the  pride  of  harm,  and  the 
broad  fields  lay  hid  under  the  yellow  waters  that 
here  and  there  washed  over  the  road.  Yet  the 
freshet  only  presented  itself  to  us  as  a  pleasant  ex- 
citement ;  and  even  when  we  came  to  a  place  where 
the  road  itself  was  covered  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
we  scarcely  looked  outside  the  diligence  to  see  how 
deep  the  water  was.  We  were  surprised  when  our 
horses  were  brought  to  a  stand  on  a  rising  ground, 
and  the  conductor,  cap  in  hand,  appeared  at  the  door. 
He  was  a  fat,  well-natured  man,  full  of  a  smiling  good- 
will ;  and  he  stood  before  us  in  a  radiant  desperation. 

Would  Eccellenza  descend,  look  at  the  water  in 
front,  and  decide  whether  to  go  on  ?  The  conductor 
desired  to  content ;  it  displeased  him  to  delay,  —  ma, 
in  somma  !  —  the  rest  was  confided  to  the  conduct- 
or's eloquent  shoulders  and  eyebrows. 

Eccellenza,  descending,  beheld  but  a  dishearten- 
ing prospect.  On  every  hand  the  country  was  un- 
der water.  The  two  diligences  stood  on  a  stone 
bridge  spanning  the  stream,  that,  now  swollen  to  an 
angry  torrent,  brawled  over  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
road  before  us.  Beyond,  the  ground  rose,  and  on 
its  slope  stood  a  farm-house  up  to  its  second  story  in 


190  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

water.  Without  the  slightest  hope  in  his  purpose, 
and  merely  as  an  experiment,  Eccellenza  suggested 
that  a  man  should  be  sent  in  on  horseback  ;  which 
being  done,  man  and  horse  in  a  moment  floundered 
into  swimming  depths. 

The  conductor,  vigilantly  regarding  Eccellenza, 
gave  a  great  shrug  of  desolation. 

Eccellenza  replied  with  a  foreigner's  broken  shrug, 
—  a  shrug  of  sufficiently  correct  construction,  but 
wanting  the  tonic  accent,  as  one  may  say,  though  ex- 
pressing, however  imperfectly,  an  equal  desolation. 

It  appeared  to  be  the  part  of  wisdom  not  to  go 
ahead,  but  to  go  back  if  we  could ;  and  we  reentered 
the  water  we  had  just  crossed.  It  had  risen  a  little 
meanwhile,  and  the  road  could  now  be  traced  only 
by  the  telegraph-poles.  The  diligence  before  us 
went  safely  through  ;  but  our  driver,  trusting  rather 
to  inspiration  than  precedent,  did  not  follow  it  care- 
fully, and  directly  drove  us  over  the  side  of  a  small 
viaduct.  All  the  baggage  of  the  train  having  been 

oo   o  o 

lodged  upon  the  roof  of  our  diligence,  the  unwieldy 
vehicle  now  lurched  heavily,  hesitated,  as  if  prepar- 
ing, like  Csesar,  to  fall  decently,  and  went  over  on  its 
side  with  a  stately  deliberation  that  gave  us  ample 
time  to  arrange  our  plans  for  getting  out. 

The  torrent  was  only  some  three  feet  deep,  but  it 
was  swift  and  muddy,  and  it  was  with  a  fine  sense  of 
shipwreck  that  Eccellenza  felt  his  boots  filling  with 
water,  while  a  conviction  that  it  would  have  been 
better,  after  all,  to  have  taken  the  steamer,  struck 
coldly  home  to  him.  We  opened  the  window  in  the 


FORZA  MAGGIORE.  191 

top  side  of  the  diligence,  and  lifted  the  ladies  through 
it,  and  the  conductor,  in  the  character  of  life-boat, 
bore  them  ashore ;  while  the  driver  cursed  his  horses 
in  a  sullen  whisper,  and  could  with  difficulty  be  di- 
verted from  that  employment  to  cut  the  lines  and 
save  one  of  them  from  drowning. 

Here  our  compatriot,  whose  conversation  with  the 
Englishman  at  the  Ombrone  we  had  lately  admired, 
showed  traits  of  strict  and  severe  method  which  af- 
terward came  into  even  bolder  relief.  The  ladies 
being  rescued,  he  applied  himself  to  the  rescue  of 
their  hats,  cloaks,  rubbers,  muffs,  books,  and  bags,  and 
handed  them  up  through  the  window  with  tireless 
perseverance,  making  an  effort  to  wring  or  dry  each 
article  in  turn.  The  other  gentleman  on  top  received 
them  all  rather  grimly,  and  had  not  perhaps  been 
amused  by  the  situation  but  for  the  exploit  of  his 
hat.  It  was  of  the  sort  called  in  Italian  as  in  Eng- 
lish slang  a  stove-pipe  (canna),  and  having  been 
made  in  Italy,  it  was  of  course  too  large  for  its 
wearer.  It  had  never  been  any  thing  but  a  horror 
and  reproach  to  him,  and  he  was  now  inexpressibly 
delighted  to  see  it  steal  out  of  the  diligence  in  com- 
pany with  one  of  the  red-leather  cushions,  and  glide 
darkly  down  the  flood.  It  nodded  and  nodded  to  the 
cushion  with  a  superhuman  tenderness  and  elegance, 
and  had  a  preposterous  air  of  whispering,  as  it 
drifted  out  of  sight,  — 

"It  may  be  we  shall  reach  the  Happy  Isles, — 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  shall  wash  us  down." 

The  romantic  interest  of  this  episode  had  hardly 


192  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

died  away,  when  our  adventure  acquired  an  idyllic 
flavor  from  the  appearance  on  the  scene  of  four  peas- 
ants in  an  ox-cart.  These  the  conductor  tried  to  en- 
gage to  bring  out  the  baggage  and  right  the  fallen 
diligence ;  and  they,  after  making  him  a  little  speech 
upon  the  value  of  their  health,  which  might  be  in- 
jured, asked  him,  tentatively,  two  hundred  francs 
for  the  service.  The  simple  incident  enforced  the 
fact  already  known  to  us,  —  that,  if  Italians  some- 
times take  advantage  of  strangers,  they  are  equally 
willing  to  prey  upon  each  other ;  but  I  doubt  if  any 
thing  could  have  taught  a  foreigner  the  sweetness 
with  which  our  conductor  bore  the  enormity,  and 
turned  quietly  from  those  brigands  to  carry  the  Port- 
land man  from  the  wreck,  on  which  he  lingered,  to 
the  shore. 

Here  in  the  gathering  twilight  the  passengers  of 
both  diligences  grouped  themselves,  and  made  merry 
over  the  common  disaster.  As  the  conductor  and 
the  drivers  brought  off  the  luggage  our  spirits  rose 
with  the  arrival  of  each  trunk,  and  we  were  pleased 
or  not  as  we  found  it  soaked  or  dry.  We  applauded 
and  admired  the  greater  sufferers  among  us  :  a  lady 
who  opened  a  dripping  box  was  felt  to  have  perpe- 
trated a  pleasantry;  and  a  Brazilian  gentleman, 
whose  luggage  dropped  to  pieces  and  was  scattered 
in  the  flood  about  the  diligence,  was  looked  upon  as 
a  very  subtile  humorist.  Our  own  contribution  to 
these  witty  passages  was  the  epigrammatic  display 
of  a  reeking  trunk  full  of  the  pretty  rubbish  people 
bring  away  from  Rome  and  Naples,  —  copies  of  Pom- 


FORZA  MAGGIOflE.  193 

peian  frescos  more  ruinous  than  the  originals ;  photo- 
graphs floating  loose  from  their  cards ;  little  earthen 
busts  reduced  to  the  lumpishness  of  common  clay ; 
Roman  scarfs  stained  and  blotted  out  of  all  memory 
of  their  recent  hues ;  Roman  pearls  clinging  together 
in  clammy  masses. 

We  were  a  band  of  brothers  and  sisters,  as  we  all 
crowded  into  one  diligence  and  returned  to  Grossetto. 
Arrived  there,  our  party,  knowing  that  a  public  con- 
veyance in  Italy  —  and  everywhere  else  —  always 
stops  at  the  worst  inn  in  a  place,  made  bold  to  seek 
another,  and  found  it  without  ado,  though  the  person 
who  undertook  to  show  it  spoke  of  it  mysteriously 
and  as  of  difficult  access,  and  tried  to  make  the  sim- 
ple affair  as  like  a  scene  of  grand  opera  as  he  could. 

We  took  one  of  the  ancient  rooms  in  which  there 
was  a  vast  fire-place,  as  already  mentioned,  and  we 
there  kindled  •  such  a  fire  as  could  not  have  been 
known  in  that  fuel-sparing  land  for  ages.  The  dry- 
ing of  the  clothes  was  an  affair  that  drew  out  all  the 
energy  and  method  of  our  compatriot,  and  at  a  late 
hour  we  left  him  moving  about  among  the  garments 
that  dangled  and  dripped  from  pegs  and  hooks  and 
lines,  dealing  with  them  as  a  physician  with  his  sick, 
and  tenderly  nursing  his  dress-coat,  which  he  wrung 
and  shook  and  smoothed  and  pulled  this  way  and 
that  with  a  never-satisfied  anxiety.  At  midnight,  he 
hired  a  watcher  to  keep  up  the  fire  and  turn  the 
steaming  raiment,  and,  returning  at  four  o'clock, 
found  his  watcher  dead  asleep  before  the  empty  fire- 
place. But  I  rather  applaud  than  blame  the  watcher 

13 


194  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

for  this.  He  must  have  been  a  man  of  iron  nerve 
to  fall  asleep  amid  all  that  phantasmal  show  of  masks 
and  disguises.  What  if  those  reeking  silks  had  for- 
saken their  nails,  and,  decking  themselves  with  the 
blotted  Roman  scarfs  and  the  slimy  Roman  pearls, 
had  invited  the  dress-coats  to  look  over  the  dripping 
photographs?  Or  if  all  those  drowned  garments 
had  assumed  the  characters  of  the  people  whom  they 
had  grown  to  resemble,  and  had  sat  down  to  hear 
the  shade  of  Pia  de'  Tolommei  rehearse  the  story  of 
her  sad  fate  in  the  Maremma  ?  I  say,  if  a  watcher 
could  sleep  in  such  company,  he  was  right  to  do  so. 

On  the  third  day  after  our  return  to  Grossetto,  we 
gathered  together  our  damaged  effects,  and  packed 
them  into  refractory  trunks.  Then  we  held  the  cus- 
tomary discussion  with  the  landlord  concerning  the 
effrontery  of  his  account,  and  drove  off  once  more 
toward  Follonica.  We  could  scarcely  recognize  the 
route  for  the  one  we  had  recently  passed  over ;  and 
it  was  not  until  wre  came  to  the  scene  of  our  wreck, 
and  found  the  diligence  stranded  high  and  dry  upon 
the  roadside,  that  we  could  believe  the  whole  land- 
scape about  us  had  been  flooded  three  days  before. 
The  offending  stream  had  shrunk  back  to  its  channel, 
and  now  seemed  to  feign  an  unconsciousness  of  its 
late  excess,  and  had  a  virtuous  air  of  not  knowing 
how  in  the  world  to  account  for  that  upturned  dili- 
gence. The  waters,  we  learned,  had  begun  to  sub- 
side the  night  after  our  disaster  ;  and  the  vehicle 
might -have  been  righted  and  drawn  off — for  it  was 


FORZA  MAGGIORE.  195 

not  in  the  least  injured  —  forty-eight  hours  previ- 
ously ;  but  I  suppose  it  was  not  en  regie  to  touch  it 
without  orders  from  Rome.  I  picture  it  to  myself 
still  lying  there,  in  the  heart  of  the  marshes,  and 
thrilling  sympathetic  travel  with  the  spectacle  of  its 
ultimate  ruin : 

"  Disfecemi  Maremma." 

We  reached  Follonica  at  last,  and  then  the  cars 
hurried  us  to  Leghorn.  We  were  thoroughly  hum- 
bled in  spirit,  and  had  no  longer  any  doubt  that  we 
did  ill  to  take  the  diligence  at  Civita  Vecchia  instead 
of  the  steamer ;  for  we  had  been,  not  nineteen  hours, 
but  four  days  on  the  road,  and  we  had  suffered  as 
aforementioned. 

But  we  were  destined  to  be  partially  restored  to 
our  self-esteem,  if  not  entirely  comforted  for  our 
losses,  when  we  sat  down  to  dinner  in  the  Hotel 
Washington,  and  the  urbane  head-waiter,  catching 
the  drift  of  our  English  discourse,  asked  us,  — 

"  Have  the  signori  heard  that  the  French  steamer, 
which  left  Civita  Vecchia  the  same  day  with  their 
diligence,  had  to  put  back  and  lie  in  port  more  than 
two  days  on  account  of  the  storm  ?  She  is  but  now 
come  into  Leghorn,  after  a  very  dangerous  passage." 


AT  PADUA. 


i. 

THOSE  of  my  readers  who  have  frequented  the 
garden  of  Doctor  Rappaccini  no  doubt  recall  with 
perfect  distinctness  the  quaint  old  city  of  Padua. 
They  remember  its  miles  and  miles  of  dim  arcade 
over-roofing  the  sidewalks  everywhere,  affording  ex- 
cellent opportunity  for  the  flirtation  of  lovers  by  day 
and  the  vengeance  of  rivals  by  night.  They  have 
seen  the  now- vacant  streets  thronged  with  maskers, 
and  the  Venetian  Podesta  going  in  gorgeous  state  to 
and  from  the  vast  Palazzo  della  Ragione.  They 
have  witnessed  ringing  tournaments  in  those  sad 
empty  squares,  and  races  in  the  Prato  della  Valle, 
and  many  other  wonders  of  different  epochs,  and 
their  pleasure  makes  me  half-sorry  that  I  should 
have  lived  for  several  years  within  an  hour  by  rail 
from  Padua,  and  should  know  little  or  nothing  of 
these  great  sights  from  actual  observation.  I  take 
shame  to  myself  for  having  visited  Padua  so  often  and 
so  familiarly  as  I  used  to  do,  —  for  having  been  bored 
and  hungry  there,  —  for  having  had  toothache  there, 
upon  one  occasion,  —  for  having  rejoiced  more  in  a 


AT   PADUA.  197 

cup  of  coffee  at  Pedrocclii's  than  in  the  whole  history 
of  Padua,  —  for  having  slept  repeatedly  in  the  bad- 
bedded  hotels  of  Padua  and  never  once  dreamt  of 
Portia, — for  having  been  more  taken  by  the  salti 
mortali  *  of  a  waiter  who  summed  up  my  account  at 
a  Paduan  restaurant,  than  by  all  the  strategies  with 
which  the  city  has  been  many  times  captured  and  re- 
captured. Had  I  viewed  Padua  only  over  the  wall 
of  Doctor  Rappaccini's  garden,  how  different  my  im- 
pressions of  the  city  would  now  be  !  This  is  one  of 
the  drawbacks  of  actual  knowledge.  "  Ah !  how 
can  you  write  about  Spain  when  once  you  have  been 
there?"  asked  Heine  of  The*ophile  Gautier  setting 
out  on  a  journey  thither. 

Nevertheless  it  seems  to  me  that  I  remember 
something  about  Padua  with  a  sort  of  romantic  pleas- 
ure. There  was  a  certain  charm  which  I  can  dimly 
recall,  in  sauntering  along  the  top  of  the  old  wall  of 
the  city,  and  looking  down  upon  the  plumy  crests  of 
the  Indian  corn  that  flourished  up  so  mightily  from 
the  dry  bed  of  the  moat.  At  such  times  1  could  not 
help  figuring  to  myself  the  many  sieges  that  the 
wall  had  known,  with  the  fierce  assault  by  day,  the 
secret  attack  by  night,  the  swarming  foe  upon  the 
plains  below,  the  bristling  arms  of  the  besieged  upon 
the  wall,  the  boom  of  the  great  mortars  made  of 
ropes  and  leather  and  throwing  mighty  balls  of  stone, 
the  stormy  flight  of  arrows,  the  ladders  planted 

*  Salti  mortali  are  those  prodigious  efforts  of  mental  arithmetic 
by  which  Italian  waiters,  in  verbally  presenting  your  account,  ar- 
rive at  six  as  the  product  of  two  and  two. 


198  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

against  the  defenses  and  staggering  headlong  into  the 
moat,  enriched  for  future  agriculture  not  only  by  its 
sluggish  waters,  but  by  the  blood  of  many  men.  I 
suppose  that  most  of  these  visions  were  old  stage 
spectacles  furbished  up  anew,  and  that  my  armies 
were  chiefly  equipped  with  their  obsolete  implements 
of  warfare  from  museums  of  armor  and  from  cabi- 
nets of  antiquities  ;  but  they  were  very  vivid  for  all 
that. 

I  was  never  able,  in  passing  a  certain  one  of  the 
city  gates,  to  divest  myself  of  an  historic  interest  in 
the  great  loads  of  hay  waiting  admission  on  the  out- 
side. For  an  instant  they  masked  again  the  Vene- 
tian troops  that,  in  the  War  of  the  League  of  Cam- 
bray,  entered  the  city  in  the  hay-carts,  shot  down 
the  landsknechts  at  the  gates,  and,  uniting  with  the 
citizens,  cut  the  German  garrison  to  pieces.  But  it 
was  a  thing  long  past.  The  German  garrison  was 
here  again ;  and  the  heirs  of  the  landsknechts  went 
clanking  through  the  gate  to  the  parade-ground,  with 
that  fierce  clamor  of  their  kettle-drums  which  is  so 
much  fiercer  because  unmingled  with  the  noise  of 
fifes.  Once  more  now  the  Germans  are  gone,  and, 
let  us  trust,  forever ;  but  when  I  saw  them,  there 
seemed  little  hope  of  their  going.  They  had  a  great 
Biergarten  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  they  had  set 
up  the  altars  of  their  heavy  Bacchus  in  many  parts 
of  the  city. 

I  please  myself  with  thinking  that,  if  I  walked  on 
such  a  spring  day  as  this  in  the  arcaded  Paduan 
streets,  I  should  catch  glimpses,  through  the  gate- 


AT  PADUA.  199 

ways  of  the  palaces,  of  gardens  full  of  vivid  bloom, 
and  of  fountains  that  tinkle  there  forever.  If  it  were 
autumn,  and  I  were  in  the  great  market-place  before 
the  Palazzo  della  Ragione,  I  should  hear  the  baskets 
of  amber-hued  and  honeyed  grapes  humming  with 
the  murmur  of  multitudinous  bees,  and  making  a 
music  as  if  the  wine  itself  were  already  singing  in 
their  gentle  hearts.  It  is  a  great  field  of  succulent 
verdure,  that  wide  old  market-place ;  and  fancy  loves 
to  browse  about  among  its  gay  stores  of  fruits  and 
vegetables, 'brought  thither  by  the  world-old  peasant- 
women  who  have  been  bringing  fruits  and  vegetables 
to  the  Paduan  market  for  so  many  centuries.  They 
sit  upon  the  ground  before  their  great  panniers,  and 
knit  and  doze,  and  wake  up  with  a  drowsy  "Coman- 
dala  ?"  as  you  linger  to  look  at  their  grapes.  They 
have  each  a  pair  of  scales,  —  the  emblem  of  Injus- 
tice, —  and  will  weigh  you  out  a  scant  measure  of 
the  fruit  if  you  like.  Their  faces  are  yellow  as  parch- 
ment, and  Time  has  written  them  so  full  of  wrinkles 
that  there  is  not  room  for  another  line.  Doubtless 
these  old  parchment  visages  are  palimpsests,  and 
would  tell  the  whole  history  of  Padua  if  you  could 
get  at  each  successive  inscription.  Among  their 
primal  records  there  must  be  some  account  of  the 
Roman  city,  as  each  little  contadinella  remembered 
it  on  market-days  ;  and  one  might  read  of  the  terror 
of  Attila's  sack,  a  little  later,  with  the  peasant-maid's 
personal  recollections  of  the  bold  Hunnish  trooper 
who  ate  up  the  grapes  in  her  basket,  and  kissed  her 
hard,  round  red  cheeks, —  for  in  that  time  she  was  a 


200  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

blooming  girl,  —  and  paid  nothing  for  either  privi- 
lege. What  wild  and  confused  reminiscences  on  the 
wrinkled  visage  we  should  find  thereafter  of  the 
fierce  republican  times,  of  Ecelino,  of  the  Carraras, 
of  the  Venetian  rule  !  And  is  it  not  sad  to  think  of 
systems  and  peoples  all  passing  away,  and  these  an- 
cient women  lasting  still,  and  still  selling  grapes  in 
front  of  the  Palazzo  della  Ragione  ?  What  a  long 
mortality ! 

The  youngest  of  their  number  is  a  thousand  years 
older  than  the  palace,  which  was  begun  in  the  twelfth 
century,  and  which  is  much  the  same  now  as  it  was 
when  first  completed.  I  know  that,  if  I  entered  it, 
I  should  be  sure  of  finding  the  great  hall  of  the  pal- 
ace —  the  vastest  hall  in  the  world  —  dim  and  dull 
and  dusty  and  delightful,  with  nothing  in  it  except 
at  one  end  Donatello's  colossal  marble-headed  wooden 
horse  of  Troy,  stared  at  from  the  other  end  by  the 
two  dog-faced  Egyptian  women  in  basalt  placed 
there  by  Belzoni. 

Late  in  the  drowsy  summer  afternoons  I  should 
have  the  Court  of  the  University  all  to  myself,  and 
might  study  unmolested  the  blazons  of  the  noble 
youth  who  have  attended  the  school  in  different  cen- 
turies ever  since  1200,  and  have  left  their  escutch- 
eons on  the  walls  to  commemorate  them.  At  the 
foot  of  the  stairway  ascending  to  the  schools  from 
the  court  is  the  statue  of  the  learned  lady  who  was 
once  a  professor  in  the  University,  and  who,  if  her 
likeness  belie  not  her  looks,  must  have  given  a  great 
charm  to  student  life  in  other  times.  At  present 


AT  PADUA.  201 

there  are  no  lady  professors  at  Padua  any  more 
than  at  Harvard ;  and  during  late  years  the  schools 
have  suffered  greatly  from  the  interference  of  the 
Austrian  government,  which  frequently  closed  them 
for  months,  on  account  of  political  demonstrations 
among  the  students.  But  now  there  is  an  end  of 
this  and  many  other  stupid  oppressions;  and  the 
time-honored  University  will  doubtless  regain  its  an- 
cient importance.  Even  in  1864  it  had  nearly  fif- 
teen hundred  students,  and  one  met  them  every- 
where under  the  arcades,  and  could  not  well  mistake 
them,  with  that  blended  air  of  pirate  and  dandy 
which  these  studious  young  men  loved  to  assume. 
They  were  to  be  seen  a  good  deal  on  the  prome- 
nades outside  the  walls,  where  the  Paduan  ladies  are 
driven  in  their  carriages  in  the  afternoon,  and  where 
one  sees  the  blood-horses  and  fine  equipages  for 
which  Padua  is  famous.  There  used  once  to  be 
races  in  the  Prato  della  Valle,  after  the  Italian  no- 
tion of  horse-races ;  but  these  are  now  discontinued, 
and  there  is  nothing  to  be  found  there  but  the  stat- 
ues of  scholars  and  soldiers  and  statesmen,  posted  in 
a  circle  around  the  old  race-course.  If  you  strolled 
thither  about  dusk  on  such  a  day  as  this,  you  might 
see  the  statues  unbend  a  little  from  their  stony  rigid- 
ity, and  in  the  failing  light  nod  to  each  other  very 
pleasantly  through  the  trees.  And  if  you  stayed  in 
Padua  over  night,  what  could  be  better  to-morrow 
morning  than  a  stroll  through  the  great  Botanical 
Garden,  —  the  oldest  botanical  garden  in  the  world, 
—  the  garden  which  first  received  in  Europe  the 


202  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

strange  and  splendid  growths  of  our  hemisphere,  — 
the  garden  where  Doctor  Rappaccini  doubtless  found 
the  germ  of  his  mortal  plant  ? 

On  the  whole,  I  believe  I  would  rather  go  this  mo- 
ment to  Padua  than  to  Lowell  or  Lawrence,  or  even 
to  Worcester ;  and  as  to  the  disadvantage  of  having 
seen  Padua,  I  begin  to  think  the  whole  place  has 
now  assumed  so  fantastic  a  character  in  my  mind 
that  I  am  almost  as  well  qualified  to  write  of  it  as  if 
I  had  merely  dreamed  it. 

The  day  that  we  first  visited  the  city  was  very 
rainy,  and  we  spent  most  of  the  time  in  viewing  the 
churches.  These,  even  after  the  churches  of  Ven- 
ice, one  finds  rich  in  art  and  historic  interest,  and 
they  in  no  instance  fall  into  the  maniacal  excesses  of 
the  Renaissance  to  which  some  of  the  temples  of  the 
latter  city  abandon  themselves.  Their  architecture 
forms  a  sort  of  border-land  between  the  Byzantine 
of  Venice  and  the  Lombardic  of  Verona.  The  su- 
perb domes  of  St.  Anthony's  emulate  those  of  St. 
Mark's ;  and  the  porticos  of  other  Paduan  churches 
rest  upon  the  backs  of  bird-headed  lions  and  leopards 
that  fascinate  with  their  mystery  and  beauty. 

It  was  the  wish  to  see  the  attributive  Giottos  in 
the  Chapter  which  drew  us  first  to  St.  Anthony's, 
and  we  saw  them  with  the  satisfaction  naturally  at- 
tending the  contemplation  of  frescos  discovered  only 
since  1858,  after  having  been  hidden  under  plaster 
and  whitewash  for  many  centuries;  but  we  could 
not  believe  that  Giotto's  fame  was  destined  to  gain 
much  by  their  rescue  from  oblivion.  They  are  in 


AT   PADUA.  203 

nowise  to  be  compared  with  this  master's  frescos  in 
the  Chapel  of  the  Annunziata,  —  which,  indeed,  is 
in  every  way  a  place  of  wonder  and  delight.  You 
reach  it  by  passing  through  a  garden  lane  bordered 
with  roses,  and  a  taciturn  gardener  comes  out  with 
clinking  keys,  and  lets  you  into  the  chapel,  where 
there  is  nobody  but  Giotto  and  Dante,  nor  seems  to 
have  been  for  ages.  Cool  it  is,  and  of  a  pulverous 
smell,  as  a  sacred  place  should  be ;  a  blessed  bench- 
ing goes  round  the  walls,  and  you  sit  down  and  take 
unlimited  comfort  in  the  frescos.  The  gardener 
leaves  you  alone  to  the  solitude  and  the  silence,  in 
which  the  talk  of  the  painter  and  the  exile  is  plain 
enough.  Their  contemporaries  and  yours  are  cor- 
dial in  their  gay  companionship :  through  the  half- 
open  door  falls,  in  a  pause  of  the  rain,  the  same  sun- 
shine that  they  saw  lie  there  ;  the  deathless  birds 
that  they  heard  sing  out  in  the  garden  trees ;  it  is 
the  fresh  sweetness  of  the  grass  mown  so  many  hun- 
dred years  ago  that  breathes  through  all  the  lovely 
garden  grounds. 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  pleasant  communion  with 
the  past,  you  have  a  lurking  pain  ;  for  you  have 
hired  your  brougham  by  the  hour ;  and  you  pres- 
ently quit  the  Chapel  of  Giotto  on  this  account. 

We  had  chosen  our  driver  from  among  many  other 
drivers  of  broughams  in  the  vicinity  of  Pedrocchi's, 
because  he  had  such  an  honest  look,  and  was  not 
likely,  we  thought,  to  deal  unfairly  with  us. 

"  But  first,"  said  the  signer  who  had  selected  him, 
"how  much  is  your  brougham  an  hour  ?  " 


204  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

So  and  so. 

"  Show  me  the  tariff  of  fares." 

"  There  is  no  tariff." 

"There  is.     Show  it  to  me." 

"  It  is  lost,  signor." 

"  I  think  not.  It  is  here  in  this  pocket.  Get  it 
out." 

The  tariff  appears,  and  with  it  the  fact  that  he 
had  demanded  just  what  the  boatman  of  the  ballad 
received  in  gift,  —  thrice  his  fee. 

The  driver  mounted  his  seat,  and  served  us  so 
faithfully  that  day  in  Padua  that  we  took  him  the 
next  day  for  Arqua.  At  the  end,  when  he  had  re- 
ceived his  due,  and  a  handsome  mancia  besides,  he 
was  still  unsatisfied,  and  referred  to  the  tariff  in 
proof  that  he  had  been  under-paid.  On  that  con- 
fronted and  defeated,  he  thanked  us  very  cordially, 
gave  us  the  number  of  his  brougham,  and  begged  us 
to  ask  for  him  when  we  came  next  to  Padua  and 
needed  a  carriage. 

From  the  Chapel  of  the  Annunziata  he  drove  us 
to  the  Church  of  Santa  Giustina,  where  is  a  very 
famous  and  noble  picture  by  Romanino.  But  as  this 
writing  has  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  with  art,  I  here 
dismiss  that  subject,  and  with  a  gross  and  idle  delight 
follow  the  sacristan  down  under  the  church  to  the 
prison  of  Santa  Giustina. 

Of  all  the  faculties  of  the  mind  there  is  none  so 
little  fatiguing  to  exercise  as  mere  wonder  ;  and,  for 
my  own  sake,  I  try  always  to  wonder  at  things  with- 
out the  least  critical  reservation.  I  therefore,  in  the 


AT   PADUA.  205 

sense  of  deglutition,  bolted  this  prison  at  once, 
though  subsequent  experiences  led  me  to  look  with 
grave  indigestion  upon  the  whole  idea  of  prisons, 
their  authenticity,  and  even  their  existence. 

As  far  as  mere  dimensions  are  concerned,  the 
prison  of  Santa  Giustina  was  not  a  hard  one  to  swal- 
low, being  only  three  feet  wide  by  about  ten  feet  in 
length.  In  this  limited  space,  Santa  Giustina  passed 
five  years  of  the  paternal  reign  of  Nero  (a  virtuous 
and  a  long-suffering  prince,  whom,  singularly  enough, 
no  historic  artist  has  yet  arisen  to  whitewash),  and 
was  then  brought  out  into  the  larger  cell  adjoining, 
to  suffer  a  blessed  martyrdom.  I  am  not  sure  now 
whether  the  sacristan  said  she  was  dashed  to  death 
on  the  stones,  or  cut  to  pieces  with  knives  ;  but 
whatever  the  form  of  martyrdom,  an  iron  ring  in  the 
ceiling  was  employed  in  it,  as  I  know  from  seeing 
the  ring,  —  a  curiously  well-preserved  piece  of  iron- 
mongery. Within  the  narrow  prison  of  the  saint, 
and  just  under  the  grating,  through  which  the  sacris- 
tan thrust  his  candle  to  illuminate  it,  was  a  mountain 
of  candle-drippings,  —  a  monument  to  the  fact  that 
faith  still  largely  exists  in  this  doubting  world.  My 
own  credulity,  not  only  with  regard  to  this  prison, 
but  also  touching  the  coffin  of  St.  Luke,  which  I  saw 
in  the  church,  had  so  wrought  upon  the  esteem  of 
the  sacristan,  that  he  now  took  me  to  a  well,  into 
which,  he  said,  had  been  cast  the  bones  of  three 
thousand  Christian  martyrs.  He  lowered  a  lantern 
into  the  well,  and  assured  me  that,  if  I  looked  through 
a  certain  screen  work  there,  I  could  see  the  bones. 


206  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

On  experiment  I  could  not  see  the  bones,  but  this 
circumstance  did  not  cause  me  to  doubt  their  pres- 
ence, particularly  as  I  did  see  upon  the  screen  a 
great  number  of  coins  offered  for  the  repose  of  the 
martyrs'  souls.  I  threw  down  some  soldi,  and  thus 
enthralled  the  sacristan. 

If  the  signor  cared  to  see  prisons,  he  said,  the 
driver  must  take  him  to  those  of  Ecelino,  at  present 
the  property  of  a  private  gentleman  near  by.  As  I 
had  just  bought  a  history  of  Ecelino,  at  a  great  bar- 
gain, from  a  second-hand  book-stall,  and  had  a  lively 
interest  in  all  the  enormities  of  that  nobleman,  I 
sped  the  driver  instantly  to  the  villa  of  the  Signor 
P . 

It  depends  here  altogether  upon  the  freshness  or 
mustiness  of  the  reader's  historical  reading  whether 
he  cares  to  be  reminded  more  particularly  who  Ece- 
lino was.  He  flourished  balefully  in  the  early  half 
of  the  thirteenth  century  as  lord  of  Vicenza,  Verona, 
Padua,  and  Brescia,  and  was  defeated  and  hurt  to 
death  in  an  attempt  to  possess  himself  of  Milan.  He 
was  in  every  respect  a  remarkable  man  for  that  time, 
—  fearless,  abstemious,  continent,  avaricious,  hardy, 
and  unspeakably  ambitious  and  cruel.  He  survived 
and  suppressed  innumerable  conspiracies,  escaping 
even  the  thrust  of  the  assassin  whom  the  fame  of  his 
enormous  wickedness  had  caused  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain  to  send  against  him.  As  lord  of  Padua 

O 

he  was  more  incredibly  severe  and  bloody  in  his  rule 
than  as  lord  of  the  other  cities,  for  the  Paduans  had 
been  latest  free,  and  conspired  the  most  frequently 


AT  PADUA.  207 

against  him.  He  extirpated  whole  families  on  sus- 
picion that  a  single  member  had  been  concerned  in 
a  meditated  revolt.  Little  children  and  helpless 
women  suffered  hideous  mutilation  and  shame  at  his 
hands.  Six  prisons  in  Padua  were  constantly  filled 
by  his  arrests.  The  whole  country  was  traversed  by 
witnesses  of  his  cruelties,  —  men  and  women  de- 
prived of  an  arm  or  leg,  and  begging  from  door  to 
door.  He  had  long  been  excommunicated  ;  at  last 
the  Church  proclaimed  a  crusade  against  him,  and 
his  lieutenant  and  nephew  —  more  demoniacal,  if 
possible,  than  himself — was  driven  out  of  Padua 
while  he  was  operating  against  Mantua.  Ecelino 
retired  to  Verona,  and  maintained  a  struggle  against 
the  crusade  for  nearly  two  years  longer,  with  a  cour- 
age which  never  failed  him.  Wounded  and  taken 
prisoner,  the  soldiers  of  the  victorious  army  gathered 
about  him,  and  heaped  insult  and  reproach  upon 
him ;  and  one  furious  peasant,  whose  brother's  feet 
had  been  cut  off  by  Ecelino's  command,  dealt  the 
helpless  monster  four  blows  upon  the  head  with  a 
scythe.  By  some,  Ecelino  is  said  to  have  died  of 
these  wounds  alone ;  but  by  others  it  is  related  that 
his  death  was  a  kind  of  suicide,  inasmuch  as  he  him- 
self put  the  case  past  surgery  by  tearing  off  the 
bandages  from  his  hurts,  and  refusing  all  medicines. 


n. 

ENTERING  at  the   enchanted   portal  of  the  Villa 
,  we  found  ourselves  in  a  realm   of  wonder. 


208    '  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

It  was  our  misfortune  not  to  see  the  magician  who 
compelled  all  the  marvels  on  which  we  looked,  but 
for  that  very  reason,  perhaps,  we  have  the  clearest 
sense  of  his  greatness.  Everywhere  we  beheld  the 
evidences  of  his  ingenious  but  lugubrious  fancy, 
which  everywhere  tended  to  a  monumental  and  mor- 
tuary effect.  A  sort  of  vestibule  first  received  us, 
and  beyond  this  dripped  and  glimmered  the  garden. 
The  walls  of  the  vestibule  were  covered  with  inscrip- 
tions setting  forth  the  sentiments  of  the  philosophy 
and  piety  of  all  ages  concerning  life  and  death ;  we 
began  with  Confucius,  and  we  ended  with  Benja- 
mino  Franklino.  But  as  if  these  ideas  of  mortality 
were  not  sufficiently  depressing,  the  funereal  Signer 

P had  collected  into  earthen  amphorce  the  ashes 

of  the  most  famous  men  of  ancient  and  modern  times, 
and  arranged  them  so  that  a  sense  of  their  number 
and  variety  should  at  once  strike  his  visitor.  Each 
jar  was  conspicuously  labeled  with  the  name  its  il- 
lustrious dust  had  borne  in  life ;  and  if  one  escaped 
with  comparative  cheerfulness  from  the  thought  that 
Seneca  had  died,  there  were  in  the  very  next  pot  the 
cinders  of  Napoleon  to  bully  him  back  to  a  sense  of 
his  mortality. 

We  were  glad  to  have  the  gloomy  fascination  of 
these  objects  broken  by  the  custodian,  who  ap- 
proached to  ask  if  we  wished  to  see  the  prisons  of 
Ecelino,  and  we  willingly  followed  him  into  the  rain 
out  of  our  sepulchral  shelter. 

Between  the  vestibule  and  the  towers  of  the  ty- 
rant lay  that  garden  already  mentioned,  and  our  guide 


AT  PADUA  209 

led  us  through  ranks  of  weeping  statuary,  and  rainy 
bowers,  and  showery  lanes  of  shrubbery,  until  we 
reached  the  door  jof  his  cottage.  While  he  entered 
to  fetch  the  key  to  the  prisons,  we  noted  that  the 
towers  were  freshly  painted  and  in  perfect  repair; 
and  indeed  the  custodian  said  frankly  enough,  on  re- 
appearing, that  they  were  merely  built  over  the  pris- 
ons on  the  site  of  the  original  towers.  The  storied 
stream  of  the  Bacchiglione  sweeps  through  the 
grounds,  and  now,  swollen  by  the  rainfall,  it  roared, 
a  yellow  torrent,  under  a  corner  of  the  prisons.  The 
towers  rise  from  masses  of  foliage,  and  form  no  un- 
pleasing  feature  of  what  must  be,  in  spite  of  Signer 

P ,  a  delightful  Italian  garden  in  sunny  weather. 

The  ground  is  not  so  flat  as  elsewhere  in  Padua,  and 
this  inequality  gives  an  additional  picturesqueness1  to 
the  place.  But  as  we  were  come  in  search  of  hor- 
rors, we  scorned  these  merely  lovely  things,  and  has- 
tened to  immure  ourselves  in  the  dungeons  below. 
The  custodian,  lighting  a  candle,  (which  ought,  we 
felt,  to  have  been  a  torch,)  went  before. 

We  found  the  cells,  though  narrow  and  dark,  not 
uncomfortable,  and  the  guide  conceded  that  they  had 
undergone  some  repairs  since  Ecelino's  time.  But 
all  the  horrors  for  which  we  had  come  were  there  in 
perfect  grisliness,  and  labeled  by  the  ingenious  Signer 
P with  Latin  inscriptions. 

In  the  first  cell  was  a  shrine  of  the  Virgin,  set  in 

the  wall.     Beneath  this,  while  the  wretched  prisoner 

knelt  in  prayer,  a  trap-door  opened  and  precipitated 

him  upon  the  points  of  knives,  from  which  his  body 

u 


210  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

fell  into  the  Bacchiglione  below.  In  the  next  cell, 
held  by  some  rusty  iron  rings  to  the  wall,  was  a  skel- 
eton, hanging  by  the  wrists.  : 

"  This,"  said  the  guide,  "  was  another  punishment 
of  which  Ecelino  was  very  fond." 

A  dreadful  doubt  seized  my  mind.  "  Was  this 
skeleton  found  here  ?  "  I  demanded. 

Without  faltering  an  instant,  without  so  much  as 
winking  an  eye,  the  custodian  replied,  "Appunto" 

It  was  a  great  relief,  and  restored  me  to  confi- 
dence in  the  establishment.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  ex- 
plain how  my  faith  should  have  been  confirmed 
afterwards  by  coming  upon  a  guillotine  —  an  awful 
instrument  in  the  likeness  of  a  straw-cutter,  with  a 
decapitated  wooden  figure  under  its  blade  —  which 
the  custodian  confessed  to  be  a  modern  improvement 

placed  there  by  Signer  P .  Yet  my  credulity 

was  so  strengthened  by  his  candor,  that  I  accepted 
without  hesitation  the  torture  of  the  water-drop 
when  we  came  to  it.  The  water-jar  was  as  well  pre- 
served as  if  placed  there  but  yesterday,  and  the 
skeleton  beneath  it  —  found  as  we  saw  it  —  was  en- 
tire and  perfect. 

In  the  adjoining  cell  sat  a  skeleton  —  found  as  we 
saw  it  —  with  its  neck  in  the  clutch  of  the  garrote, 
which  was  one  of  Ecelino's  more  merciful  punish- 
ments ;  while  in  still  another  cell  the  ferocity  of  the 
tyrant  appeared  in  the  penalty  inflicted  upon  the 
wretch  whose  skeleton  had  been  hanging  for  ages  — 
as  we  saw  it  — head  downwards  from  the  ceiling. 

Beyond  these,  in  a  yet  darker  and  drearier  dun- 


AT  PADUA.  211 

geon,  stood  a  heavy  oblong  wooden  box,  with  two 
apertures  near  the  top,  peering  through  which  we 
found  that  we  were  looking  into  the  eyeless  sockets 
of  a  skull.  Within  this  box  Ecelino  had  immured 
the  victim  we  beheld  there,  and  left  him  to  perish  in 
view  of  the  platters  of  food  and  goblets  of  drink 
placed  just  beyond  the  reach  of  his  hands.  The 
food  we  saw  was  of  course  not  the  original  food. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  crowning  horror  of  Villa 

P ,  the  supreme  excess  of  Ecelino's  cruelty. 

The  guide  entered  the  cell  before  us,  and,  as  we 
gained  the  threshold,  threw  the  light  of  his  taper 
vividly  upon  a  block  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  Fixed  to  the  block  by  an  immense  spike  driven 
through  from  the  back  was  the  little  slender  hand  of 
a  woman,  which  lay  there  just  as  it  had  been  struck 
from  the  living  arm,  and  which,  after  the  lapse  of  so 
many  centuries,  was  still  as  perfectly  preserved  as  if 
it  had  been  embalmed.  The  sight  had  a  most  cruel 
fascination ;  and  while  one  of  the  horror-seekers 
stood  helplessly  conjuring  to  his  vision  that  scene  of 
unknown  dread,  —  the  shrinking,  shrieking  woman 
dragged  to  the  block,  the  wild,  shrill,  horrible  screech 
following  the  blow  that  drove  in  the  spike,  the  mer- 
ciful swoon  after  the  mutilation,  —  his  companion, 
with  a  sudden  pallor,  demanded  to  be  taken  instantly 
away. 

In  their  swift  withdrawal,  they  only  glanced  at  a 
few  detached  instruments  of  torture, — all  original 
Ecelinos,  but  intended  for  the  infliction  of  minor  and 
comparatively  unimportant  torments,  —  and  then 
they  passed  from  that  place  of  fear. 


212  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 


III. 

IN  the  evening  we  sat  talking  at  the  Gaffe  Pe- 
drocchi  with  an  abbate,  an  acquaintance  of  ours,  who 
was  a  Professor  in  the  University  of  Padua.  Pe- 
drocchi's  is  the  great  caffS  of  Padua,  a  granite  edifice 
of  Egyptian  architecture,  which  is  the  mausoleum  of 
the  proprietor's  fortune.  The  pecuniary  skeleton  at 
the  feast,  however,  does  not  much  trouble  the  guests. 
They  begin  early  in  the  evening  to  gather  into  the 
elegant  saloons  of  the  caffe,  —  somewhat  too  large 
for  so  small  a  city  as  Padua,  —  and  they  sit  there 
late  in  the  night  over  their  cheerful  cups  and  their 
ices,  with  their  newspapers  and  their  talk.  Not  so 
many  ladies  are  to  be  seen  as  at  the  caffe  in  Venice, 
for  it  is  only  in  the  greater  cities  that  they  go  much 
to  these  public  places.  There  are  few  students  at 
Pedrocchi's,  for  they  frequent  the  cheaper  caffS  ;  but 
you  may  nearly  always  find  there  some  Professor  of 
the  University,  and  on  the  evening  of  which  I  speak 
there  were  two  present  besides  our  abbate.  Our 
friend's  great  passion  was  the  English  language, 
which  he  understood  too  well  to  venture  to  speak  a 
great  deal.  He  had  been  translating  from  that 
tongue  into  Italian  certain  American  poems,  and  our 
talk  was  of  these  at  first.  Then  we  began  to  talk 
of  distinguished  American  writers,  of  whom  intelli- 
gent Italians  always  know  at  least  four,  in  this  suc- 
cession, —  Cooper,  Mrs.  Stowe,  Longfellow,  and  Ir- 
ving. Mrs.  Stowe's  Gapanna  di  Zio  Tom  is,  of  course, 


AT  PADUA.  213 

universally  read;  and  my  friend  had  also  read  11 
Fiore  di  Maggio,  —  "  The  May-flower."  Of  Long- 
fellow, the  "  Evangeline "  is  familiar  to  Italians, 
through  a  translation  of  the  poem ;  but  our  abbate 
knew  all  the  poet's  works,  and  one  of  the  other  pro- 
fessors present  that  evening  had  made  such  faithful 
study  of  them  as  to  have  produced  some  translations 
rendering  the  original  with  remarkable  fidelity  and 
spirit.  I  have  before  me  here  his  brochure,  printed 
last  year  at  Padua,  and  containing  versions  of  "  En- 
celadus,"  "  Excelsior,"  "  A  Psalm  of  Life,"  "  The 
Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,"  "  Sand  of  the  Desert  in 
an  Hour-Glass,"  "  Twilight,"  "  Daybreak,"  "  The 
Quadroon  Girl,"  and  "  Torquemada,"  —  pieces 
which  give  the  Italians  a  fair  notion  of  our  poet's 
lyrical  range,  and  which  bear  witness  to  Professor 
Messadaglia's  sympathetic  and  familiar  knowledge  of 
his  works.  A  young  and  gifted  lady  of  Parma,  now 
unhappily  no  more,  lately  published  a  translation  of 
"  The  Golden  Legend ;  "  and  Professor  Messadaglia, 
in  his  Preface,  mentions  a  version  of  another  of 
our  poet's  longer  works  on  which  the  translator  of 
the  "  Evangeline  "  is  now  engaged. 

At  last,  turning  from  literature,  we  spoke  with  the 
gentle  abbate  of  our  day's  adventures,  and  eagerly 
related  that  of  the  Ecelino  prisons.  To  have  seen 
them  was  the  most  terrific 'pleasure  of  our  lives. 

"  Eh  I  "  said  our  friend,  "  I  believe  you." 

"  We  mean  those  under  the  Villa  P ." 

"  Exactly." 


214  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

There  was  a  tone  of  politely  suppressed  amuse- 
ment in  the  abbate's  voice ;  and  after  a  moment's 
pause,  in  which  we  felt  our  awful  experience  slip- 
ping and  sliding  away  from  us,  we  ventured  to  say, 
"  You  don't  mean  that  those  are  not  the  veritable 
Ecelino  prisons  ?  " 

"  Certainly  they  are  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
Ecelino  prisons  were  destroyed  when  the  Crusaders 
took  Padua,  with  the  exception  of  the  tower,  which 
the  Venetian  Republic  converted  into  an  observa- 
tory." 

"  But  at  least  these  prisons  are  on  the  site  of  Ece- 
lino's  castle  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort.  His  castle  in  that  case 
would  have  been  outside  of  the  old  city  walls." 

"  And  those  tortures  and  the  prisons  are  all"  — 

"  Things  got  up  for  show.  No  doubt,  Ecelino 
used  such  things,  and  many  worse,  of  which  even 

the  ingenuity  of  Signof  P cannot  conceive.  But 

he  is  an  eccentric  man,  loving  the  horrors  of  history, 
and  what  he  can  do  to  realize  them  he  has  done  in 
his  prisons." 

"  But  the  custodian  —  how  could  he  lie  so  ?  " 

Our  friend  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Eh  !  easily. 
And  perhaps  he  even  believed  what  he  said." 

The  world  began  to  assume  an  aspect  of  bewilder- 
ing ungenuineness,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  treach- 
erous quality  of  fiction  in  the  ground  under  our  feet. 
Even  the  play  at  the  pretty  little  Teatro  Sociale, 
where  we  went  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  evening, 


AT   PADUA.  215 

appeared  hollow  and  improbable.  We  thought  the 
hero  something  of  a  bore,  with  his  patience  and 
goodness  ;  and  as  for  the  heroine,  pursued  by  the  at- 
tentions of  the  rich  profligate,  we  doubted  if  she 
were  any  better  than  she  should  be. 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  PETRARCH'S  HOUSE 
AT  ARQUl. 


i. 


WE  said,  during  summer  days  at  Venice,  when 
every  campo  was  a  furnace  seven  times  heated,  and 
every  canal  was  filled  with  boiling  bathers,  "  As  soon 
as  it  rains  we  will  go  to  Arqua."  Remembering  the 
ardors  of  an  April  sun  on  the  long,  level  roads  of 
plain,  we  could  not  think  of  them  in  August  with- 
out a  sense  of  dust  clogging  every  pore,  and  eyes 
that  shrank  from  the  vision  of  their  blinding  white- 
ness. So  we  stayed  in  Venice,  waiting  for  rain, 
until  the  summer  had  almost  lapsed  into  autumn ; 
and  as  the  weather  cooled  before  any  rain  reached  us,  • 
we  took  the  moisture  on  the  mainland  for  granted, 
and  set  out  under  a  cloudy  and  windy  sky. 

We  had  to  go  to  Padua  by  railway,  and  take  car- 
riage thence  to  Arqua  upon  the  road  to  Ferrara.  I 
believe  no  rule  of  human  experience  was  violated 
when  it  began  to  rain  directly  after  we  reached 
Padua,  and  continued  to  rain  violently  the  whole 
day.  We  gave  up  this  day  entirely  to  the  rain,  and 
did  not  leave  Padua  until  the  following  morning, 
when  we  count  that  our  pilgrimage  to  Petrarch's 
house  actually  began. 


A   PILGRIMAGE  TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.         217 

The  rain  had  cooled  and  freshened  the  air,  but  it 
was  already  too  late  in  the  season  for  the  summer  to 
recover  herself  with  the  elastic  brilliancy  that  follows 
the  rain  of  July  or  early  August ;  and  there  was  I 
know  not  what  vague  sentiment  of  autumn  in  the 
weather.  There  was  not  yet  enough  of  it  to  stir  the 

"  Tears  from  the  depth"  of  some  divine  despair ; " 

but  in  here  and  there  a  faded  leaf  (for  in  Europe 
death  is  not  glorified  to  the  foliage  as  in  our  own 
land),  in  the  purple  of  the  ripening  grapes,  and  in 
the  tawny  grass  of  the  pastures,  there  was  autumn 
enough  to  touch  our  spirits,  and  while  it  hardly 
affected  the  tone  of  the  landscape,  to  lay  upon  us 
the  gentle  and  pensive  spell  of  its  presence.  Of  all 
the  days  in  the  year  I  would  have  chosen  this  to  go 
pilgrim  to  the  house  of  Petrarch. 

The  Euganean  Hills,  on  one  of  which  the  poet's 
house  is  built,  are  those  mellow  heights  which  you 
see  when  you  look  southwest  across  the  lagoon  at 
Venice.  In  misty  weather  they  are  blue,  and  in 
clear  weather  silver,  and  the  October  sunset  loves 
them.  '  They  rise  in  tender  azure  before  you  as  you 
issue  from  the  southern  gate  of  Padua,  and  grow  in 
loveliness  as  you  draw  nearer  to  them  from  the  rich 
plain  that  washes  their  feet  with  endless  harvests 
of  oil  and  wine. 

Oh  beauty  that  will  not  let  itself  be  told  !  Could 
I  not  take  warning  from  another,  and  refrain  from 
this  fruitless  effort  of  description  ?  A  friend  in  Padua 
had  lent  me  Disraeli's  "  Venetia,"  because  a  passage 


218  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

of  the  story  occurs  in  Petrarch's  house  at  Arqua, 
and  we  carried  the  volumes  with  us  on  our  pilgrim- 
age. I  would  here  quote  the  description  of  the  vil- 
lage, the  house,  and  the  hills  from  this  work,  as  fault- 
lessly true,  and  as  affording  no  just  idea  of  either ; 
but  nothing  of  it  has  remained  in  my  mind  except 
the  geological  fact  that  the  hills  are  a  volcanic  range. 
To  tell  the  truth,  the  landscape,  as  we  rode  along, 
continually  took  my  mind  off  the  book,  and  I  could 
not  give  that  attention  either  to  the  elegant  language 
of  its  descriptions,  or  the  adventures  of  its  well-born 
characters,  which  they  deserved.  I  was  even  more 
interested  in  the  disreputable-looking  person  who 
mounted  the  box  beside  our  driver  directly  we  got 
out  of  the  city  gate,  and  who  invariably  commits  this 
infringement  upon  your  rights  in  Italy,  no  matter 
how  strictly  and  cunningly  you  frame  your  contract 
that  no  one  else  is  to  occupy  any  part  of  the  carriage 
but  yourself.  He  does  not  seem  to  be  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  driver,  for  they  never  exchange  a  word, 
and  he  does  not  seem  to  pay  any  thing  for  the  ride. 
He  got  down,  in  this  instance,  just  before  we  reached 
the  little  town  at  which  our  driver  stopped,  and  asked 
us  if  we  wished  to  drink  a  glass  of  the  wine  of  the 
country.  We  did  not,  but  his  own  thirst  seemed  to 
answer  equally  well,  and  he  slaked  it  cheerfully  at 
our  cost. 

The  fields  did  not  present  the  busy  appearance 
which  had  delighted  us  on  the  same  road  in  the 
spring,  but  they  had  that  autumnal  charm  already 
mentioned.  Many  of  the  vine-leaves  were  sear ;  the 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.         219 

red  grapes  were  already  purple,  and  the  white 
grapes  pearly  ripe,  and  they  formed  a  gorgeous  neck- 
lace for  the  trees,  around  which  they  clung  in  opu- 
lent festoons.  Then,  dearer  to  our  American  hearts 
than  this  southern  splendor,  were  the  russet  fields 
of  Indian  corn,  and,  scattered  among  the  shrunken 
stalks,  great  nuggets  of  the  "  harmless  gold "  of 
pumpkins. 

At  Battaglia  (the  village  just  beyond  which  you 
turn  off  to  go  to  Arqua)  there  was  a  fair,  on  the 
blessed  occasion  of  some  saint's  day,  and  there  were 
many  booths  full  of  fruits,  agricultural  implements, 
toys,  clothes,  wooden  ware,  and  the  like.  There 
was  a  great  crowd  and  a  noise,  but,  according  to  the 
mysterious  Italian  custom,  nobody  seemed  to  be  buy- 
ing or  selling.  I  am  in  the  belief  that  a  small  pur- 
chase of  grapes  we  made  here  on  our  return  was  the 
great  transaction  of  the  day,  unless,  indeed,  the  neat 
operation  in  alms  achieved  at  our  expense  by  a  men- 
dicant villager  may  be  classed  commercially. 

When  we  turned  off  from  the  Rovigo  road  at  Bat- 
taglia we  were  only  three  miles  from  Arqua. 

n. 

Now,  all  the  way  from  this  turning  to  the  foot  of 
the  hill  on  which  the  village  was  stretched  asleep  in 
the  tender  sunshine,  there  was  on  either  side  of  the 
road  a  stream  of  living  water.  There  was  no  other 
barrier  than  this  between  the  road  and  the  fields 
(unless  the  vines  swinging  from  tree  to  tree  formed 


220  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

a  barrier),  and,  as  if  in  graceful  excuse  for  the  inter- 
position of  even  these  slender  streams,  Nature  had 
lavished  such  growth  of  wild  flowers  and  wild  berries 
on  the  banks  that  it  was  like  a  garden  avenue, 
through  the  fragrance  and  beauty  of  which  we  rolled, 
delighted  to  silence,  almost  to  sadness. 

When  we  began  to  climb  the  hill  to  Arqu^,  and 
the  driver  stopped  to  breathe  his  horse,  I  got  out  and 
finished  the  easy  ascent  on  foot.  The  great  marvel 
to  me  is  that  the  prospect  of  the  vast  plain  below,  on 
which,  turning  back,  I  feasted  my  vision,  should  be 
there  yet,  and  always.  It  had  the  rare  and  sadden- 
ing beauty  of  evanescence,  and  awoke  in  me  the 
memory  of  all  beautiful  scenery,  so  that  I  embroid- 
ered the  landscape  with  the  silver  threads  of  west- 
ern streams,  and  bordered  it  with  Ohio  hills.  Ohio 
hills  ?  When  I  looked  again  it  was  the  storied  Eu- 
ganean  group.  But  what  trans-oceanic  bird,  voyag- 
ing hither,  dropped  from  its  mouth  the  blackberry 
which  took  root  and  grew  and  blossomed  and  ripened, 
that  I  might  taste  Home  in  it  on  these  classic  hills  ? 

I  wonder  did  Petrarch  walk  often  down  this  road 
from  his  house  just  above  ?  I  figured  him  coming 
to  meet  me  with  his  book  in  his  hand,  in  his  rever- 
end poetic  robes,  and  with  his  laurel  on,  over  that 
curious  kind  of  bandaging  which  he  seems  to  have 
been  fond  of — looking,  in  a  word,  for  all  the  world 
like  the  neuralgic  Petrarch  in  the  pictures. 

Drawing  nearer,  I  discerned  the  apparition  to  be  a 
robeless,  laureless  lout,  who  belonged  at  the  village 
inn.  Yet  this  lout,  though  not  Petrarch,  had  merits. 


A   PILGRIMAGE   TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.         221 

His  face  and  hands,  and  his  legs,  as  seen  from  his 
knees  down,  had  the  tone  of  the  richest  bronze ;  he 
wore  a  mountain  cap  with  a  long  tasseled  fall  to  the 
back  of  it ;  his  face  was  comely  and  his  eye  beauti- 
ful ;  and  he  was  so  nobly  ignorant  of  every  thing 
that  a  colt  or  young  bullock  could  not  have  been  bet- 
ter company.  He  merely  offered  to  guide  us  to  Pe- 
trarch's house,  and  was  silent,  except  when  spoken 
to,  from  that  instant. 

I  am  here  tempted  to  say  :  Arqua  is  in  the  figure 
of  a  man  stretched  upon  the  hill  slope.  The  head, 
which  is  Petrarch's  house,  rests  upon  the  summit. 
The  carelessly  tossed  arms  lie  abroad  from  this  in 
one  direction,  and  the  legs  in  the  opposite  quarter. 
It  is  a  very  lank  and  shambling  figure,  without  ele- 
gance or  much  proportion,  and  the  attitude  is  the  last 
wantonness  of  loafing.  We  followed  our  lout  up 
the  right  leg,  which  is  a  gentle  and  easy  ascent  in 
the  general  likeness  of  a  street.  World-old  stone 
cottages  crouch  on  either  •  side  ;  here  and  there  is  a 
more  ambitious  house  in  decay  ;  trees  wave  over  the 
street,  and  down  its  distance  comes  an  occasional 
donkey-cart  very  musically  and  leisurely.  By  all 
odds,  Arqua  and  its  kind  of  villages  are  to  be  pre- 
ferred to  those  hamlets  of  the  plain  which  in  Italy 
cling  to  the  white-hot  highway  without  a  tree  to 
shelter  them,  and  bake  and  burn  there  in  the  merci- 
less sun.  Their  houses  of  stuccoed  stone  are  crowded 
as  thickly  together  as  city  houses,  and  these  wretched 
little  villages  do  their  worst  to  unite  the  discomforts 
of  town  and  country  with  a  success  dreadful  to  think 


222  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

of.  In  all  countries  villages  are  hateful  to  the  heart 
of  civilized  man.  In  the  Lombard  plains  I  wonder 
that  one  stone  of  them  rests  upon  another. 

We  reached  Petrarch's  house  before  the  custodian 
had  arrived  to  admit  us,  and  stood  before  the  high 
stone  wall  which  shuts  in  the  front  of  the  house,  and 
quite  hides  it  from  those  without.  This  wall  bears 
the  inscription,  Oasa  Petrarca,  and  a  marble  tablet 
lettered  to  the  following  effect :  — 

SE  TI  AGITA 

SACRO  AMOEE  DI  PATRIA,      « 

T'INCHINA  A  QUESTE  MURA 

OVE  SPIRO  LA  GRAND'  ANIMA, 

IL  CANTOR  DEI  SCIP1ONI 

E  DI  LAURA. 

Which  may  be  translated :  "  If  thou  art  stirred  by 
love  of  country,  bow  to  these  walls,  whence  passed 
the  great  soul,  the  singer  of  the  Scipios  and  of 
Laura." 

Meanwhile  we  became  the  centre  of  a  group  of  the 
youths  of  Arqua,  who  had  kindly  attended  our  prog- 
ress in  gradually  increasing  numbers  from  the  moment 
we  had  entered  the  village.  They  were  dear  little 
girls  and  boys,  and  mountain  babies,  all  with  sunburnt 
faces  and  the  gentle  and  the  winning  ways  native  to 
this  race,  which  Nature  loves  better  than  us  of  the 
North.  The  blonde  pilgrim  seemed  to  please  them, 
and  they  evidently  took  us  for  Tedeschi.  You  learn 
to  submit  to  this  fate  in  Northern  Italy,  however  un- 
gracefully, for  it  is  the  one  that  constantly  befalls 
you  outside  of  the  greatest  cities.  The  people  know 
but  two  varieties  of  foreigners — the  Englishman 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.        223 

and  the  German.  If,  therefore,  you  have  not  rosbif 
expressed  in  every  lineament  of  your  countenance ; 
if  the  soles  of  your  boots  are  less  than  an  inch  thick, 
and  your  clothes  are  not  reduced  in  color  to  the  in- 
variable and  maddening  tone  of  the  English  tweed, — 
you  must  resign  yourself  to  be  a  German.  All  this 
is  grievous  to  the  soul  which  loves  to  spread  its  eagle 
in  every  land  and  to  be  known  as  American,  with 
star-spangled  conspicuousness  all  over  the  world  : 
but  it  cannot  be  helped.  I  vainly  tried  to  explain 
the  geographical,  political,  and  natural  difference 
between  Tedeschi  and  American]  to  the  custodian 
of  Petrarch's  house.  She  listened  with  amiability, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  hopelessly,  and  said,  in  her 
rude  Venetian,  "Mi  no  so  miga"  (I  don't  know 
at  all). 

Before  she  came,  I  had  a  mind  to  prove  the  celeb- 
rity of  a  poet  on  the  spot  where  he  lived  and  died, 
—  on  his  very  hearthstone,  as  it  were.  So  I  asked 
the  lout,  who  stood  gnawing  a  stick  and  shifting 
his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other, — 

"  When  did  Petrarch  live  here  ?  ' 

"  Ah  !  I  don't  remember  him." 

"Who  was  he?" 

"A  poet,  signor." 

Certainly  the  first  response  was  not  encouraging, 
but  the  last  revealed  that  even  to  the  heavy  and 
clouded  soul  of  this  lout  the  divine  fame  of  the  poet 
had  penetrated  —  and  he  a  lout  in  the  village  where 
Petrarch  lived  and  ought  to  be  first  forgotten.  He 
did  not  know  when  Petrarch  had  lived  there,  —  a 


224  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

year  ago,  perhaps,  or  many  centuries,  —  but  he  knew 
that  Petrarch  was  a  poet.  A  weight  of  doubt  was 
lifted  from  my  spirit,  and  I  responded  cheerfully  to 
some  observations  on  the  weather  offered  by  a  rustic 
matron  who  was  Ditching  manure  on  the  little  hill- 
slope  near  the  house..  When,  at  last,  the  custodian 
came  and  opened  the  gate  to  us,  we  entered  a  little 
grassy  yard  from  which  'a  flight  of  steps  led  to  Pe- 
trarch's door.  A  few  flowers  grew  wild  among  the 
grass,  and  a  fig-tree  leaned  its  boughs  against  the 
wall.  The  figs  on  it  were  green,  though  they  hung 
ripe  and  blackening  on  every  other  tree  in  Arqua. 
Some  ivy  clung  to  the  stones,  and  from  this  and  the 
fig-tree,  as  we  came  away,  we  plucked  memorial 
leaves,  and  blended  them  with  flowers  which  the 
youth  of  Arqua  picked  and  forced  upon  us  for  re- 
membrance. 

A  quaint  old  door  opened  into  the  little  stone 
house,  and  admitted  us  to  a  kind  of  wide  passage-way 
with  rooms  on  either  side  ;  and  at  the  end  opposite 
to  which  we  entered,  another  door  opened  upon  a 
balcony.  From  this  balcony  we  looked  down  on  Pe- 
trarch's garden,  which,  presently  speaking,  is  but  a 
narrow  space  with  more  fruit  than  flowers  in  it.  Did 
Petrarch  use  to  sit  and  meditate  in  this  garden  ?  For 
me  I  should  better  have  liked  a  chair  on  the  balcony, 
with  the  further  and  lovelier  prospect  on  every  hand 
of  village-roofs,  sloping  hills  all  gray  with  olives,  and 
the  broad,  blue  Lombard  plain,  sweeping  from  heaven 
to  heaven  below. 

The  walls  of  the  passage-way  are  frescoed  (now 


A   PILGRIMAGE   TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.         225 

very  faintly)  in  illustration  of  the  loves  of  Petrarch 
and  Laura,  with  verses  from  the  sonnets  inscribed  to 
explain  the  illustrations.  In  all  these  Laura  prevails 
as  a  lady  of  a  singularly  long  waist  and  stiff  move- 
ments, and  Petrarch,  with  his  face  tied  up  and  a  lily 
in  his  hand,  contemplates  the  flower  in  mingled  bot- 
any and  toothache.  There  is  occasionally  a  startling 
literalness  in  the  way  the  painter  has  rendered  some 
of  the  verses.  I  remember  with  peculiar  interest 
the  illustration  of  a  lachrymose  passage  concerning 
a  river  of  tears,  wherein  the  weeping  Petrarch, 
stretched  beneath  a  tree,  had  already  started  a  small 
creek  of  tears,  which  was  rapidly  swelling  to  a  flood 
with  the  torrent  from  his  eyes.  I  attribute  these 
frescos  to  a  later  date  than  that  of  the  poet's  resi- 
dence, but  the  portrait  over  the  door  of  the  bedroom 
inside  of  the  chamber,  was  of  his  own  time,  and 
taken  from  him  —  the  custodian  said.  As  it  seemed 
to  look  like  all  the  Petrarchian  portraits,  I  did  not 
remark  it  closely,  but  rather  turned  my  attention  to 
the  walls  of  the  chamber,  which  were  thickly  over- 
scribbled  with  names.  They  were  nearly  all  Italian, 
and  none  English  so  far  as  I  saw.  This  passion  for 
allying  one's  self  to  the  great,  by  inscribing  one's 
name  on  places  hallowed  by  them,  is  certainly  very- 
odd  ;  and  (I  reflected  as  I  added  our  names  to  the 
rest)  it  is,  without  doubt,  the  most  impertinent  and 
idiotic  custom  in  the  world.  People  have  thus  writ- 
ten themselves  down,  to  the  contempt  of  sensible 
futurity,  all  over  Petrarch's  house. 

The  custodian  insisted  that  the  bedroom  was  just 

15 


226  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

as  in  the  poet's  time  ;  some  rooms  beyond  it  had 
been  restored ;  the  kitchen  at  its  side  was  also  re- 
paired. Crossing  the  passage-way,  we  now  entered 
the  dining-room,  which  was  comparatively  large  and 
lofty,  with  a  mighty  and  generous  fire-place  at  one 
end,  occupying  the  whole  space  left  by  a  balcony- 
window.  The  floor  was  paved  with  tiles,  and  the 
window-panes  were  round  and  small,  and  set  in  lead 
—  like  the  floors  and  window-panes  of  all  the  other 
rooms.  A  gaudy  fresco,  representing  some  indeli- 
cate female  deity,  adorned  the  front  of  the  fire-place, 
which  sloped  expanding  from  the  ceiling  and  termi- 
nated at  the  mouth  without  a  mantel-piece.  The 
chimney  was  deep,  and  told  of  the  cold  winters  in 
the  hills,  of  which,  afterward,  the  landlady  of  the 
village  inn  prattled  less  eloquently. 

From  this  dining-room  opens,  to  the  right,  the 
door  of  the  room  which  they  call  Petrarch's  library ; 
and  above  the  door,  set  in  a  marble  frame,  with  a 
glass  before  it,  is  all  that  is  mortal  of  Petrarch's  cat, 
except  the  hair.  Whether  or  not  the  fur  was  found 
incompatible  with  the  process  of  embalming,  and 
therefore  removed,  or  whether  it  has  slowly  dropped 
away  with  the  lapse  of  centuries,  I  do  not  know ; 
but  it  is  certain  the  cat  is  now  quite  hairless,  and  has 
the  effect  of  a  wash-leather  invention  in  the  likeness 
of  a  young  lamb.  On  the  marble  slab  below  there 
is  a  Latin  inscription,  said  to  be  by  the  great  poet 
himself,  declaring  this  cat  to  have  been  "  second  only 
to  Laura."  We  may,  therefore,  believe  its  virtues 
to  have  been  rare  enough ;  and  cannot  well  figure  to 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.         227 

ourselves  Petrarch  sitting  before  that  wide-mouthed 
fire-place,  without  beholding  also  the  gifted  cat  that 
purrs  softly  at  his  feet  and  nestles  on  his  knees,  or, 
with  thickened  tail  and  lifted  back,  parades  loftily 
round  his  chair  in  the  haughty  and  disdainful  manner 
of  cats. 

In  the  library,  protected  against  the  predatory  en- 
thusiasm of  visitors  by  a  heavy  wire  netting,  are  the 
desk  and  chair  of  Petrarch,  which  I  know  of  no  form 
of  words  to  describe  perfectly.  The  front  of  the 
desk  is  of  a  kind  of  mosaic  in  cubes  of  wood,  most 
of  which  have  been  carried  away.  The  chair  is 
wide-armed  and  carved,  but  the  bottom  is  gone,  and 
it  has  been  rudely  repaired.  The  custodian  said  Pe- 
trarch died  in  this  chair  while  he  sat  writing  at  his 
desk  in  the  little  nook  lighted  by  a  single  window 
opening  on  the  left  from  his  library.  He  loved  to 
sit  there.  As  I  entered  I  found  he  had  stepped  out 
for  a  moment,  but  I  know  he  returned  directly  after 
I  withdrew. 

On  one  wall  of  the  library  (which  is  a  simple  ob- 
long room,  in  nowise  remarkable)  was  a  copy  of  verses 
in  a  frame,  by  Cesarotti,  and  on  the  wall  opposite  a 
tribute  from  Alfieri,  both  manu  proprid.  Over  and 
above  these  are  many  other  scribblings  ;  and  hang- 
ing over  the  door  of  the  poet's  little  nook  was  a  crim- 
inal French  lithograph  likeness  of  "  Pe*trarque " 
when  young. 

Alfieri's  verses  are  written  in  ink  on  the  wall, 
while  those  of  Cesarotti  are  on  paper,  and  framed. 
I  do  not  remember  any  reference  to  his  visit  to  Pe- 


228  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

trarch's  house  in  Alfieri's  autobiography,  though  the 
visit  must  have  taken  place  in  1783,  when  he  so- 
journed at  Padua,  and  "  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  celebrated  Cesarotti,  with  whose  lively  and  court- 
eous manners  he  was  no  less  satisfied  than  he  had 
always  been  in  reading  his  (Cesarotti's)  most  mas- 
terly version  of  '  Ossian.'  '  It  is  probable  that  the 
friends  visited  the  house  together.  At  any  rate,  I 
care  to  believe  that  while  Cesarotti  sat  "  composing  " 
his  tribute  comfortably  at  the  table,  Alfieri's  impetu- 
ous soul  was  lifting  his  tall  body  on  tiptoe  to  'scrawl 
its  inspirations  on  the  plastering. 

Do  you  care,  gentle  reader,  to  be  reminded  that 
just  before  this  visit  Alfieri  had  heard  in  Venice  of 
the  "  peace  between  England  and  the  United  Colo- 
nies," and  that  he  then  and  there  "  wrote  the  fifth 
ode  of  the  '  America  Libera,'  "  and  thus  finished 
that  poem  ? 

After  copying  these  verses  we  returned  to  the 
dining-room,  and  while  one  pilgrim  strayed  idly 
through  the  names  in  the  visitor's  book,  the  other 
sketched  Petrarch's  cat,  before  mentioned,  and  Pe- 
trarch's inkstand  of  bronze  —  a  graceful  little  thing, 
having  a  cover  surmounted  by  a  roguish  cupid,  while 
the  lower  part  is  supported  on  three  lion's  claws,  and 
just  above  the  feet,  at  either  of  the  three  corners, 
is  an  exquisite  little  female  bust  and  head.  Thus 
sketching  and  idling,  we  held  spell-bound  our  friends 
the  youth  of  Arqua,  as  well  as  our  driver,  who,  hav- 
ing brought  innumerable  people  to  see  the  house  of 
Petrarch,  now  for  the  first  time,  with  great  astonish- 
ment, beheld  the  inside  of  it  himself. 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.         229 

As  to  the  authenticity  of  the  house  I  think  there 
can  be  no  doubt,  and  as  to  the  genuineness  of  the 
relics  there,  nothing  in  the  world  could  shake  my 
faith  in  them,  though  Muratori  certainly  characterizes 
them  as  "  superstitions."  The  great  poet  was  sixty- 
five  years  old  when  he  came  to  rest  at  Arqua,  and 
when,  in  his  own  pathetic  words,  "  there  remained 
to  him  only  to  consider  and  to  desire  how  to  make  a 
good  end."  He  says  further,  at  the  close  of  his  au- 
tobiography :  "In  one  of  the  Euganean  hills,  near 
to  ten.  miles  from  the  city  of  Padua,  I  have  built  me 
a  house,  small  but  pleasant  and  decent,  in  the  midst 
of  slopes  clothed  with  vines  and  olives,  abundantly 
sufficient  for  a  family  not  large  and  discreet.  Here 
I  lead  my  life,  and  although,  as  I  have  said,  infirm 
of  body,  yet  tranquil  of  mind,  without  excitements, 
without  distractions,  without  cares,  reading  always, 
and  writing  and  praising  God,  and  thanking  God  as 
well  for  evil  as  for  good ;  which  evil,  if  I  err  not,  is 
trial  merely  and  not  punishment.  And  all  the  while 
I  pray  to  Christ  that  he  make  good  the  end  of  my 
life,  and  have  mercy  on  me,  and  forgive  me,  and  even 
forget  my  youthful  sins  ;  wherefore,  in  this  solitude, 
no  words  are  so  sweet  to  my  lips  as  these  of  the 
psalm :  '  Delicta  juventutis  mece,  et  ignorantias  meas  ne 
memineris.'  And  with  every  feeling  of  the  heart  I 
pray  God,  when  it  please  Him,  to  bridle  my  thoughts, 
so  long  unstable  and  erring ;  and  as  they  have  vainly 
wandered  to  many  things,  to  turn  them  all  to  Him 
—  only  true,  certain,  immutable  Good." 

I   venerate   the   house   at   Arqua   because   these 


230  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

sweet  and  solemn  words  were  written  in  it.  We  left 
its  revered  shelter  (after  taking  a  final  look  from  the 
balcony  down  upon  "  the  slopes  clothed  with  vines 
and  olives")  and  returned  to  the  lower  village, 
where,  in  the  court  of  the  little  church,  we  saw  the 
tomb  of  Petrarch  —  "  an  ark  of  red  stone,  upon  four 
columns  likewise  of  marble."  The  epitaph  is  this :  — 

Frigida  Francisci  lapis  hie  tegit  ossa  Petrarcse ; 
Suscipe,  Virgo  parens,  animam  ;  sate  Virgine,  parce 
Fessaque  jam  terris  Coeli  requiescat  in  arce." 

A  head  of  the  poet  in  bronze  surmounts  the  ark. 
The  housekeeper  of  the  parish  priest,  who  ran  out  to 
enjoy  my  admiration  and  bounty,  told  me  a  wild  lo- 
cal tradition  of  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  Flor- 
entines to  steal  the  bones  of  Petrarch  away  from 
Arqu&,  in  proof  of  which  she  showed  me  a  block  of 
marble  set  into  the  ark,  whence  she  said  a  fragment 
had  been  removed  by  the  Florentines.  This  local 
tradition  I  afterwards  found  verified,  with  names  and 
dates,  in  a  little  "  Life  of  Petrarch,"  by  F.  Leoni, 
published  at  Padua  in  1843.  It  appears  that  this 
curious  attempt  of  the  Florentines  to  do  doubtful 
honor  to  the  great  citizen  whose  hereditary  civic 
rights  they  restored  too  late  (about  the  time  he  was 
drawing  nigh  his  "  good  end  "  at  Arqua),  was  made 
for  them  by  a  certain  monk  of  Portagruaro  named 
Tommaso  Martinelli.  He  had  a  general  instruction 
from  his  employers  to  bring  away  from  Arqua^  "  any 
important  thing  of  Petrarch's  "  that  he  could ;  and 
it  occurred  to  this  ill-advised  friar  to  "  move  his 
bones."  He  succeeded  on  a  night  of  the  year  1630 


231 

in  stealing  the  dead  poet's  arm.  The  theft  being  at 
once  discovered,  the  Venetian  Republic  rested  not 
till  the  thief  was  also  discovered ;  but  what  became 
of  the  arm  or  of  the  sacrilegious  monk  neither  the 
Signor  Leoni  nor  the  old  women  of  Arqua  give  any 
account.  The  Republic  removed  the  rest  of  Pe- 
trarth's  body,  which  is  now  said  to  be  in  the  Royal 
Museum  of  Madrid. 

I  was  willing  to  know  more  of  this  quaint  village  of 
Arqua,  and  I  rang  at  the  parish  priest's  door  to  beg 
of  him  some  account  of  the  place,  if  any  were  printed. 
But  already  at  one  o'clock  he  had  gone  to  bed  for  a 
nap,  and  must  on  no  account  be  roused  till  four.  It 
is  but  a  quiet  life  men  lead  in  Arqua,  and  their  souls 
are  in  drowsy  hands.  The  amount  of  sleep  which 
this  good  man  gives  himself  (if  he  goes  to  bed  at  9  p. 
M.  and  rises  at  9  A.  M.,  with  a  nap  of  three  hours  dur- 
ing the  day)  speaks  of  a  quiet  conscience,  a  good  di- 
gestion, and  uneventful  days.  As  I  turned  this  notion 
over  in  my  mind,  my  longing  to  behold  his  reverence 
increased,  that  I  might  read  life  at  Arqua  in  the 
smooth  curves  of  his  well-padded  countenance.  1 
thought  it  must  be  that  his  "  bowels  of  compas- 
sion w^ere  well-rounded,"  and,  making  sure  of  abso- 
lution, I  was  half-minded,  if  I  got  speech  with  him, 
to  improve  the  occasion  by  confessing  one  or  two  of 
my  blackest  sins. 

Ought  I  to  say  here  that,  on  the  occasion  of  a  sec- 
ond visit  to  Arqua,  I  succeeded  in  finding  this  excel- 
lent ecclesiastic  wide  awake  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  and  that  he  granted  me  an  interview  at 


232  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

that  hour  ?  Justice  to  him,  I  think,  demands  this 
admission  of  me.  He  was  not  at  all  a  fat  priest,  as 
I  had  prefigured  him,  but  rather  of  a  spare  person, 
and  of  a  brisk  and  lively  manner.  At  the  village 
inn,  after  listening  half  an  hour  to  a  discourse  on 
nothing  but  white  wine  from  a  young  priest,  who  had 
stopped  to  drink  a  glass  of  it,  I  was  put  in  the  way 
of  seeing  the  priest  of  Arqua  by  the  former's  court- 
esy. Happily  enough,  his  reverence  chanced  to 
have  the  very  thing  I  wanted  to  see  —  no  other  than 
Leoni's  "  Life  of  Petrarch,"  to  which  I  have  already 
referred.  Courtesy  is  the  blood  in  an  Italian's  veins, 
and  I  need  not  say  that  the  ecclesiastic  of  Arqua, 
seeing  my  interest  in  the  place,  was  very  polite  and 
obliging.  But  he  continued  to  sleep  throughout  our 
first  stay  in  Arqua,  and  I  did  not  see  him  then. 

I  strolled  up  and  down  the  lazy,  rambling  streets, 
and  chiefly  devoted  myself  to  watching  the  young 
women  who  were  washing  clothes  at  the  stream  run- 
ning from  the  "  Fountain  of  Petrarch."  Their  arms 
and  legs  were  bronzed  and  bare,  and  they  chattered 
and  laughed  gayly  at  their  work.  Their  wash-tubs 
were  formed  by  a  long  marble  conduit  from  the  foun- 
tain ;  their  wash-boards,  by  the  inward-sloping  con- 
duit-sides ;  and  they  thrashed  and  beat  the  garments 
clean  upon  the  smooth  stone.  To  a  girl,  their  waists 
were  broad  and  their  ankles  thick.  Above  their  fore- 
heads the  hair  was  cut  short,  and  their  "  back  hair  " 
was  gathered  into  a  mass,  and  held  together  by  a 
converging  circle  of  silver  pins. 

The  Piazza   della  Fohtana,  in  Arqua,  is  a  place 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO   PETRARCH'S   HOUSE.         233 

some  fifty  feet  in  length  and  breadth,  and  seems  to 
be  a  favorite  place  of  public  resort.  In  the  evening, 
doubtless,  it  is  alive  with  gossipers,  as  now  with 
workers.  It  may  be  that  then  his  reverence,  risen 
from  his  nap,  saunters  by,  and  pauses  long  enough  to 
chuck  a  pretty  girl  under  the  chin  or  pinch  an  ur- 
chin's cheek. 

Our  dinner  was  ready  by  the  time  I  got  back  to 
the  inn,  and  we  sat  down  to  a  chicken  stewed  in  oil 
and  a  stoup  of  the  white  wine  of  Arqua.  It  was 
a  modest  feast,  but,  being  a  friend  to  oil,  I  found  it 
savory,  and  the  wine  was  both  good  and  strong. 
While  we  lingered  over*  the  repast  we  speculated 
somewhat  carelessly  whether  Arqua  had  retained 
among  its  simplicities  the  primitive  Italian  cheap- 
ness of  which  you  read  much.  When  our  landlord 
leaned  over  the  table  and  made  out  our  account  on 
it  with  a  bit  of  chalk,  the  bill  was  as  follows  :  — 

Soldi. 
Chicken         .         .         .         .         .         70 

Bread 8 

Wine 20 

Total          .         .         .         .98 

It  surely  was  not  a  costly  dinner,  yet  I  could  have 
bought  the  same  chicken  in  Venice  for  half  the 
money  ;  which  is  but  another  proof  that  the  demand 
of  the  producer  is  often  much  larger  than  the  supply 
of  the  consumer,  and  that  to  buy  poultry  cheaply 
you  must  not  purchase  it  where  raised,  — 


234  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

..."  On  misty  mountain  ground, 
Its  own  vast  shadow  glory  crowned,"  — 

but  rather  in  a  large  city  after  it  has  been  transported 
forty  miles  or  more.  Not  that  we  begrudged  the 
thrifty  inn-keeper  his  fee.  We  paid  it  cheerfully,  as 
well  for  his  own  sake  as  for  that  of  his  pleasant  and 
neat  little  wife,  who  kept  the  whole  inn  so  sweet  and 
clean  ;  and  we  bade  them  a  most  cordial  farewell  as 
we  drove  away  from  their  door. 


in. 

RETURNING,  we  stopped  at  the  great  castle  of  the 
Obizzi  (now  the  property  of  the  Duke  of  Modena), 
through  which  we  were  conducted  by  a  surly  and 
humorous  cmtode,  whose  pride  in  life  was  that  castle 
and  its  treasures,  so  that  he  resented  as  a  personal 
affront  the  slightest  interest  in  any  thing  else.  He 
stopped  us  abruptly  in  the  midst  of  the  museum, 
and,  regarding  the  precious  antiques  and  curiosities 
around  him,  demanded : 

"Does  this  castle  please  you?"  Then,  with  a 
scornful  glance  at  us,  *'  Your  driver  tells  me  you 
have  been  at  Arqua  ?  And  what  did  you  see  at 
Arqud  ?  A  shabby  little  house  and  a  cat  without 
any  hair  on.  I  would  not,"  said  this  disdainful  cus- 
tode,  "  go  to  Arqua  if  you  gave  me  a  lemonade." 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  CIMBRI. 


I  HAD  often  heard  in  Venice  of  that  ancient  peo- 
ple, settled  in  the  Alpine  hills  about  the  pretty  town 
of  Bassano,  on  the  Brenta,  whom  common  fame  de- 
clares to  be  a  remnant  of  the  Cimbrian  invaders  of 
Rome,  broken  up  in  battle,  and  dispersed  along  the 
borders  of  North  Italy,  by  Marius,  many  centuries 
ago.  So  when  the  soft  September  weather  came, 
last  year,  we  sallied  out  of  Venice,  in  three,  to  make 
conquest  of  whatever  was  curious  in  the  life  and  tra- 
ditions of  these  mountaineers,  who  dwell  in  seven 
villages,  and  are  therefore  called  the  people  of  the 
Sette  Communi  among  their  Italian  neighbors.  We 
went  fully  armed  with  note-book  and  sketch-book, 
and  prepared  to  take  literary  possession  of  our  con- 
quest. 

From  Venice  to  the  city  of  Vicenza  by  railroad, 
it  is  two  hours ;  and  thence  one  must  take  a  carriage 
to  Bassano  (which  is  an  opulent  and  busy  little  grain 
mart,  of  some  twelve  thousand  souls,  about  thirty 
miles  north  of  Venice).  We  were  very  glad  of  the 
ride  across  the  country.  By  the  time  we  reached 
the  town  it  was  nine  o'clock,  and  moonlight,  and  as 
we  glanced  out  of  our  windows  we  saw  the  quaint 
up-and-down-hill  streets  peopled  with  promenaders, 


236  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

and  every  body  in  Bassano  seemed  to  be  making  love. 
Young  girls  strolled  about  the  picturesque  ways  with 
their  lovers,  and  tender  couples  were  cooing  at  the 
doorways  and  windows,  and  the  scene  had  all  that 
surface  of  romance  with  which  the  Italians  contrive 
to  varnish  the  real  commonplaceness  of  their  life. 
Our  ride  through  the  twilight  landscape  had  pre- 
pared us  for  the  sentiment  of  Bassano ;  we  had 
pleased  ourselves  with  the  spectacle  of  the  peasants 
returning  from  their  labor  in  the  fields,  led  in  troops 
of  eight  or  ten  by  stalwart,  white-teethed,  bare- 
legged maids  ;  and  we  had  reveled  in  the  moment- 
ary lordship  of  an  old  walled  town  we  passed,  which 
at  dusk  seemed  more  Gothic  and  Middle- Age  than 
any  thing  after  Verona,  with  a  fine  church,  and  tur- 
rets and  battlements  in  great  plenty.  What  town 
it  was,  or  what  it  had  been  doing  there  so  many  ages, 
I  have  never  sought  to  know,  and  I  should  be  sorry 
to  learn  any  thing  about  it. 

The  next  morning  we  began  those  researches  for 
preliminary  information  concerning  the  Cimbri  which 
turned  out  so  vain.  Indeed,  as  we  drew  near  the 
lurking-places  of  that  ancient  people,  all  knowledge 
relating  to  them  diffused  itself  into  shadowy  conject- 
ure. The  barber  and  the  bookseller  differed  as  to 
the  best  means  of  getting  to  the  Sette  Communi,  and 
the  oaffetiere  at  whose  place  we  took  breakfast  knew 
nothing  at  all  of  the  road,  except  that  it  was  up  the 
mountains,  and  commanded  views  of  scenery  which, 
verily,  it  would  not  grieve  us  to  see.  As  to  the 
Cimbri,  he  only  knew  that  they  had  their  own  Ian- 


A  VISIT  TO   THE   CIMBRI.  237 

guage,  which  was  yet  harder  than  the  German.  The 
German  was  hard  enough,  but  the  Cimbrian  !  Corpo  ! 

At  last,  hearing  of  a  famous  cave  there  is  at  Oli- 
ero,  a  town  some  miles  further  up  the  Brenta,  we 
determined  to  go  there,  and  it  was  a  fortunate 
thought,  for  there  we  found  a  nobleman  in  charge 
of  the  cave  who  told  us  exactly  how  to  reach  the 
Sette  Communi.  You  pass  a  bridge  to  get  out  of 
Bassano  —  a  bridge  which  spans  the  crystal  swift- 
ness of  the  Brenta,  rushing  down  to  the  Adriatic 
from  the  feet  of  the  Alps  on  the  north,  and  full  of 
voluble  mills  at  Bassano.  All  along  the  road  to 
Oliero  was  the  finest  mountain  scenery,  Brenta- 
washed,  and  picturesque  with  ever-changing  lines. 
Maize  grows  in  the  bottom-lands,  and  tobacco,  which 
is  guarded  in  the  fields  by  soldiers  for  the  monopo- 
list government.  Farm-houses  dot  the  valley,  and 
now  and  then  we  passed  villages,  abounding  in  blonde 
girls,  so  rare  elsewhere  in  Italy,  but  here  so  numer- 
ous as  to  give  Titian  that  type  from  which  he 
painted. 

At  Oliero  we  learned  not  only  which  was  the 
road  to  the  Sette  Communi,  but  that  we  were  in  it, 
and  it  was  settled  that  we  should  come  the  next  day 
and  continue  in  it,  with  the  custodian  of  the  cave, 
who  for  his  breakfast  and  dinner,  and  what  else  we 
pleased,  offered  to  accompany  us.  We  were  early 
at  Oliero  on  the  following  morning,  and  found  our 
friend  in  waiting ;  he  mounted  beside  our  driver, 
and  we  rode  up  the  Brenta  to  the  town  of  Valstagna 
where  our  journey  by  wheels  ended,  and  where  we 


238  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

were  to  take  mules  for  the  mountain  ascent.  Our 
guide,  Count  Giovanni  Bonato  (for  I  may  as  well 
give  him  his  title,  though  at  this  stage  of  our  prog- 
ress we  did  not  know  into  what  patrician  care  we 
had  fallen),  had  already  told  us  what  the  charge  for 
mules  would  be,  but  it  was  necessary  to  go  through 
the  ceremony  of  bargain  with  the  muleteer  before 
taking  the  beasts.  Their  owner  was  a  Cimbrian, 
with  a  broad  sheepish  face,  and  a  heavy,  awkward 
accent  of  Italian  which  at  once  more  marked  his 
northern  race,  and  made  us  feel  comparatively  se- 
cure from  plunder  in  his  hands.  He  had  come  down 
from  the  mountain  top  the  night  before,  bringing 
three  mules  laden  with  charcoal,  and  he  had  waited 
for  us  till  the  morning.  His  beasts  were  furnished 
with  comfortable  pads,  covered  with  linen,  to  ride 
upon,  and  with  halters  instead  of  bridles,  and  we 
were  prayed  to  let  them  have  their  heads  in  the 
ascent,  and  not  to  try  to  guide  them. 

The  elegant  leisure  of  Valstagna  (and  in  an  Ital- 
ian town  nearly  the  whole  population  is  elegantly  at 
leisure)  turned  out  to  witness  the  departure  of  our 
expedition  ;  the  pretty  little  blonde  wife  of  our  inn- 
keeper, who  was  to  get  dinner  ready  against  our  re- 
turn, held  up  her  baby  to  wish  us  boun  viaggio,  and 
waved  us  adieu  with  the  infant  as  with  a  handker- 
chief; the  chickens  and  children  scattered  to  right 
and  left  before  our  advance  ;  and  with  Count  Gio- 
vanni going  splendidly  ahead  on  foot,  and  the  Cim- 
brian bringing  up  the  rear,  we  struck  on  the  broad 
rocky  valley  between  the  heights,  and  presently 


A   VISIT  TO   THE   CIMBRI.  239 

began  the  ascent.  It  was  a  lovely  morning ;  the  sun 
was  on  the  heads  of  the  hills,  and  the  shadows 
clothed  them  like  robes  to  their  feet ;  and  I  should 
be  glad  to  feel  here  and  now  the  sweetness,  fresh- 
ness, and  purity  of  the  mountain  air,  that  seemed 
to  bathe  our  souls  in  a  childlike  delight  of  life.  A 
noisy  brook  gurgled  through  the  valley ;  the  birds 
sang  from  the  trees  ;  the  Alps  rose,  crest  on  crest, 
around  us  ;  and  soft  before  us,  among  the  bald  peaks 
showed  the  wooded  height  where  the  Cimbrian  vil- 
lage of  Fozza  stood,  with  a  white  chapel  gleaming 
from  the  heart  of  the  lofty  grove.  Along  the  moun- 
tain sides  the  smoke  curled  from  the  lonely  huts  of 
shepherds,  and  now  and  then  we  came  upon  one  of 
those  melancholy  refuges  which  are  built  in  the  hills 
for  such  travelers  as  are  belated  in  their  ways,  or 
are  overtaken  there  by  storms. 

The  road  for  the  most  part  winds  by  the  brink  of 
precipices,  —  walled  in  with  masonry  of  small  stones, 
where  Nature  has  not  shored  it  up  with  vast  mono- 
liths, —  and  is  paved  with  limestone.  It  is,  of  course, 
merely  a  mule-path,  and  it  was  curious  to  see,  and 
thrilling  to  experience,  how  the  mules,  vain  of  the 
safety  of  their  foothold,  kept  as  near  the  border  of 
the  precipices  as  possible.  For  my  own  part,  I 
abandoned  to  my  beast  the  entire  responsibility  in- 
volved by  this  line  of  conduct ;  let  the  halter  hang 
loose  upon  his  neck,  and  gave  him  no  aid  except  such 
slight  service  as  was  occasionally  to  be  rendered  by 
shutting  my  eyes  and  holding  my  breath.  The  mule 
of  the  fairer  traveler  behind  me  was  not  only  ambi- 


240  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

tious  of  peril  like  my  own,  but  was  envious  of  my 
beast's  captaincy,  and  continually  tried  to  pass  him 
on  the  outside  of  the  path,  to  the  great  dismay  of 
the  gentle  rider ;  while  half-suppressed  wails  of  ter- 
ror from  the  second  lady  in  the  train  gave  evidence 
of  equal  vanity  and  daring  in  her  mule.  Count 
Giovanni  strode  stolidly  before,  the  Cimbrian  came 
behind,  and  we  had  little  coherent  conversation  until 
we  stopped  under  a  spreading  haw-tree,  half-way  up 
the  mountain,  to  breathe  our  adventurous  beasts. 

Here  two  of  us  dismounted,  and  while  one  of  the 
ladies  sketched  the  other  in  her  novel  attitude  of  cav- 
alier, I  listened  to  the  talk  of  Count  Giovanni  and 
the  Cimbrian.  This  Cimbrian's  name  in  Italian  was 
Lazzaretti,  and  in  his  own  tongue  Briick,  which,  pro- 
nouncing less  regularly,  we  made  Brick,  in  compli- 
ment to  his  qualities  of  good  fellowship.  His  broad, 
honest  visage  was  bordered  by  a  hedge  of  red  beard, 
and  a  light  of  dry  humor  shone  upon  it :  he  looked, 
we  thought,  like  a  Cornishman,  and  the  contrast  be- 
tween him  and  the  visa  sciolto,  pensieri  stretti  expres- 
sion of  Count  Giovanni  was  curious  enough. 

Concerning  his  people,  he  knew  little  ;  but  the 
Capo-gente  of  Fozza  could  tell  me  every  thing.  Va- 
rious traditions  of  their  origin  were  believed  among 
them  ;  Brick  himself  held  to  one  that  they  had  first 
come  from  Denmark.  As  we  sat  there  under  the 
spreading  haw-tree,  Count  Giovanni  and  I  made  him 
give  us  the  Cimbrian  equivalent  of  some  Italian 
phrases,  which  the  curious  may  care  to  see  in  cor- 
respondence with  English  and  German.  Of  course, 
German  pronunciation  must  be  given  to  the  words :  — 


A   VISIT  TO  THE  CIMBRI. 


241 


English. 

Cimbrian. 

German. 

I  go, 

I  gehe, 

Ich  gehe. 

Thou  goest, 

Du  gehst, 

Du  gehst. 

He  goes, 

Ar  geht, 

Er  geht. 

We  go, 

Hamish  gehen, 

Wir  gehen. 

You  go, 

Hamish  setender  gehnt, 

Ihr  geht. 

They  go, 

Dandern  gehnt, 

Sie  gehen. 

I  went, 

I  bin  gegehnt, 

Ich  bin  gegangen. 

Thou  wentest, 

Du  bist  gegehnt, 

Du  bist  gegangen. 

He  went, 

Der  iganget, 

Er  ist  gegangen. 

Good  day, 

Uter  tag, 

Guten  Tag. 

Good  night, 

Uter  nast, 

Gute  Nacht. 

How  do  you  do  ? 

Bie  estater  ?    , 

Wie  steht's  ? 

How  goes  it  ? 

Bie  gehts  ? 

Wie  geht's  ? 

I, 

I, 

Ich. 

Thou, 

Du, 

Du. 

He,  she, 

Di, 

Er,  sie. 

We, 

Borandern, 

Wir. 

You, 

Ihrt, 

Ihr. 

They, 

Dandern, 

Sie. 

The  head, 

Da  kof, 

Der  Kopf. 

Breast, 

Petten, 

Brust  (Italian  petto). 

Face, 

Denne, 

Gesicht. 

Arm, 

Arm, 

Arm. 

Foot, 

Vuss, 

Fuss. 

Finger, 

Vinger, 

Finger. 

Hand, 

Hant, 

Hand. 

Tree, 

Pom, 

Baum. 

Hat, 

Hoit, 

Hut. 

God, 

Got, 

Gott. 

Heaven, 

Debelt, 

Ilimmel. 

Earth, 

Erda, 

Erde. 

Mountain, 

Perk, 

Berg. 

Valley, 

Tal, 

Thai. 

Man, 

Mann, 

Mann. 

Woman, 

Beip, 

Weib. 

Lady, 

Vrau, 

Frau. 

Child, 

Hint, 

Kind. 

Brother, 

Pruder, 

Bruder. 

Father, 

Vada, 

Vater. 

16 


242  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

English.  Cimbrian.  German. 

Mother,  Muter,  Mutter. 

Sister,  Schwester,  Schwester. 

Stone,  Stone,  Stein. 

A  general  resemblance  to  German  and  English 
will  have  been  observed  in  these  fragments  of  Cim- 
brian, while  other  words  will  have  been  noticed  as 
quite  foreign  to  either. 

There  was  a  poor  little  house  of  refreshment  be- 
side our  spreading  haw,  and  a  withered  old  woman 
came  out  of  it  and  refreshed  us  with  clear  spring 
water,  and  our  guides  and  friends  with  some  bitter 
berries  of  the  mountain,  which  they  admitted  were 
unpleasant  to  the  taste,  but  declared  were  very  good 
for  the  blood.  When  they  had  sufficiently  improved 
their  blood,  we  mounted  our  mules  again,  and  set 
out  with  the  journey  of  an  hour  and  a  quarter  still 
between  us  and  Fozza. 

As  we  drew  near  the  summit  of  the  mountain  our 
road  grew  more  level,  and  instead  of  creeping  along 
by  the  brinks  of  precipices,  we  began  to  wind  through 
bits  of  meadow  and  pleasant  valley  walled  in  by 
lofty  heights  of  rock. 

Though  September  was  bland  as  June  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  we  found  its  breath  harsh  and  cold 
on  these  heights ;  and  we  remarked  that  though 
there  were  here  and  there  breadths  of  wheat,  the 
land  was  for  the  most  part  in  sheep  pasturage,  and 
the  grass  looked  poor  and  stinted  of  summer  warmth. 
We  met,  at  times,  the  shepherds,  who  seemed  to  be 
of  Italian  race,  and  were  of  the  conventional  type 
of  shepherds,  with  regular  faces,  and  two  elaborate 


A   VISIT  TO   THE   CIMBRI.  243 

curls  trained  upon  their  cheeks,  as  shepherds  are 
always  represented  in  stone  over  the  gates  of  villas. 
They  bore  staves,  and  their  flocks  went  before  them. 
Encountering  us,  they  saluted  us  courteously,  and 
when  we  had  returned  their  greeting,  they  cried  with 
one  voice,  — "  Ah,  lords !  is  not  this  a  miserable 
country  ?  The  people  are  poor  and  the  air  is  cold. 
It  is  an  unhappy  land !  "  And  so  passed  on,  pro- 
foundly sad ;  but  we  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
vehement  popular  desire  to  have  the  region  abused. 
We  answered  cheerfully  that  it  was  a  lovely  country. 
If  the  air  was  cold,  it  was  also  pure. 

We  now  drew  in  sight  of  Fozza,  and,  at  the  last 
moment,  just  before  parting  with  Brick,  we  learned 
that  he  had  passed  a  whole  year  in  Venice,  where  he 
had  brought  milk  from  the  main-land  and  sold  it  in 
the  city.  He  declared  frankly  that  he  counted  that 
year  worth  all  the  other  years  of  his  life,  and  that  he 
would  never  have  come  back  to  his  native  heights 
but  that  his  father  had  died,  and  left  his  mother  and 
young  brothers  helpless.  He  was  an  honest  soul, 
and  I  gave  him  two  florins,  which  I  had  tacitly  ap- 
pointed him  over  and  above  the  bargain,  with  some- 
thing for  the  small  Brick-bats  at  home,  whom  he 
presently  brought  to  kiss  our  hands  at  the  house  of 
the  Capo-gente. 

The  village  of  Fozza  is  built  on  a  grassy,  oblong 
plain  on  the  crest  of  the-  mountain,  which  declines 
from  it  on  three  sides,  and  on  the  north  rises  high 
above  it  into  the  mists  in  bleaker  and  ruggeder  ac- 
clivities. There  are  not  more  than  thirty  houses  in 


244  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

the  village,  and  I  do  not  think  it  numbers  more  than 
a  hundred  and  fifty  souls,  if  it  numbers  so  many. 
Indeed,  it  is  one  of  the  smallest  of  the  Sette  Com- 
muni,  of  which  the  capital,  Asiago,  contains  some 
thousands  of  people,  and  lies  not  far  from  Vicenza. 
The  poor  Fozzatti  had  a  church,  however,  in  their 
village,  in  spite  of  its  littleness,  and  they  had  just 
completed  a  fine  new  bell  tower,  which  the  Capo- 
gente  deplored,  and  was  proud  of  when  I  praised  it. 
The  church,  like  all  the  other  edifices,  was  built  of 
stone  ;  and  the  village  at  a  little  distance  might  look 
like  broken  crags  of  rock,  so  well  it  consorted  with 
the  harsh,  crude  nature  about  it.  Meagre  meadow- 
lands,  pathetic  with  tufts  of  a  certain  pale-blue,  tear- 
ful flower,  stretched  about  the  village  and  southward 
as  far  as  to  that  wooded  point  which  had  all  day  been 
our  landmark  in  the  ascent. 

Our  train  drew  up  at  the  humble  door  of  the  Capo- 
gente  (in  Fozza  all  doors  are  alike  humble),  and, 
leaving  our  mules,  we  entered  by  his  wife's  invita- 
tion, and  seated  ourselves  near  the  welcome  fire  of 
the  kitchen  —  welcome,  though  we  knew  that  all  the 
sunny  Lombard  plain  below  was  purple  with  grapea 
and  black  with  figs.  Again  came  from  the  women 
here  the  wail  of  the  shepherds  :  "  Ah,  lords  I  is  it  not 
a  miserable  land  ?  "  and  I  began  to  doubt  whether 
the  love  which  I  had  heard  mountaineers  bore  to  their 
inclement  heights  was  not  altogether  fabulous.  They 
made  haste  to  boil  us  some  eggs,  and  set  them  before 
us  with  some  unhappy  wine,  and  while  we  were  eat- 
ing, the  Capo-gente  came  in. 


A   VISIT  TO   THE  CIMBRI.  245 

He  was  a  very  well-mannered  person,  but  had,  of 
course,  the  bashfulness  naturally  resulting  from  lonely 
life  at  that  altitude,  where  contact  with  the  world 
must  be  infrequent.  His  fellow-citizens  seemed  to 
regard  him  with  a  kind  of  affectionate  deference,  and 
some  of  them  came  in  to  hear  him  talk  with  the 
strangers.  He  stood  till  we  prayed  him  to  sit  down, 
and  he  presently  consented  to  take  some  wine  with 
us. 

After  all,  however,  he  could  not  tell  us  much  of 
his  people  which  we  had  not  heard  before.  A  tradi- 
tion existed  among  them,  he  said,  that  their  ances- 
tors had  fled  to  these  Alps  from  Marius,  and  that 
they  had  dwelt  for  a  long  time  in  the  hollows  and 
caves  of  the  mountains,  living  and  burying  their  dead 
in  the  same  secret  places.  At  what  time  they  had 
been  converted  to  Christianity  he  could  not  tell ; 
they  had,  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  present  century, 
had  little  or  no  intercourse  with  the  Italian  popula- 
tion by  which  they  were  surrounded  on  all  sides. 
Formerly,  they  did  not  intermarry  with  that  race, 
and  it  was  seldom  that  any  Cimbrian  knew  its  lan- 
guage. But  now  intermarriage  is  very  frequent ; 
both  Italian  and  Cimbrian  are  spoken  in  nearly  all 
the  families,  and  the  Cimbrian  is  gradually  falling 
into  disuse.  They  still,  however,  have  books  of  re- 
ligious instruction  in  their  ancient  dialect,  and  until 
very  lately  the  services  of  their  church  were  per- 
formed in  Cimbrian. 

I  begged  the  Capo  to  show  us  some  of  their  books, 


246  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

and  he  brought  us  two,  —  one  a  catechism  for  chil- 
dren, entitled  "  Dar  Kloane  Catechism  vor  z'  Belose- 
land  vortraghet  in  z'  gaprecht  von  siben  Komiinen, 
un  vier  Halghe  Gasang.  1842.  Padova."  The  other 
book  it  grieved  me  to  see,  for  it  proved  that  I  was 
not  the  only  one  tempted  in  recent  times  to  visit 
these  ancient  people,  ambitious  to  bear  to  them  the 
relation  of  discoverer,  as  it  were.  A  High-Dutch 
Columbus,  from  Vienna,  had  been  before  me,  and  I 
could  only  come  in  for  Amerigo  Vespucci's  tempered 
glory.  This  German  savant  had  dwelt  a  week  in 
these  lonely  places,  patiently  compiling  a  dictionary 
of  their  tongue,  which,  when  it  was  printed,  he  had 
sent  to  the  Capo.  I  am  magnanimous  enough  to 
give  the  name  of  his  book,  that  the  curious  may 
buy  it  if  they  like.  It  is  called  "  Johann  Andreas 
Schweller's  Cimbrisches  Worterbuch.  Joseph  Berg- 
man. Vienna,  1855." 

Concerning  the  present  Cimbri,  the  Capo  said  that 
in  his  community  they  were  chiefly  hunters,  wood- 
cutters, and  charcoal-burners,  and  that  they  prac- 
ticed their  primitive  crafts  in  those  gloomier  and 
wilder  heights  we  saw  to  the  northward,  and  de- 
scended to  the  towns  of  the  plain  to  make  sale  of 
their  fagots,  charcoal,  and  wild-beast  skins.  In  Asi- 
ago  and  the  larger  communities  they  were  farmers 
and  tradesmen  like  the  Italians ;  and  the  Capo  be- 
lieved that  the  Cimbri,  in  all  their  villages,  num- 
bered near  ten  thousand.  He  could  tell  me  of  no 
particular  customs  or  usages,  and  believed  they  did 


A   VISIT  TO   THE   CIMBEI.  247 

not  differ  from  the  Italians  now  except  in  race  and 
language.*  They  are,  of  course,  subject  to  the  Aus- 
trian Government,  but  not  so  strictly  as  the  Italians 
are  ;  and  though  they  are  taxed  and  made  to  do  mili- 
tary service,  they  are  otherwise  left  to  regulate  their 
affairs  pretty  much  at  their  pleasure. 

The  Capo  ended  his  discourse  with  much  polite  re- 
gret that  he  had  nothing  more  worthy  to  tell  us ; 
and,  as  if  to  make  us  amends  for  having  come  so  far 
to  learn  so  little,  he  said  there  was  a  hermit  living 
near,  whom  we  might  like  to  see,  and  sent  his  son  to 
conduct  us  to  the  hermitage.  It  turned  out  to  be 
the  white  object  which  we  had  seen  gleaming  in  the 
wood  on  the  mountain  from  so  great  distance  below, 
and  the  wood  turned  out  to  be  a  pleasant  beechen 
grove,  in  which  we  found  the  hermit  cutting  fagots. 

*  The  English  traveler  Rose,  who  (to  my  further  discomfiture, 
I  find)  visited  Asiago  in  1817,  mentions  that  the  Cimbri  have  the 
Celtic  custom  of  waking  the  dead.  "  If  a  traveler  dies  by  the 
way,  they  plant  a  cross  upon  the  spot,  and  all  who  pass  by  cast  a 
stone  upon  his  cairn.  Some  go  in  certain  seasons  in  the  year  to 
high  places  and  woods,  where  it  is  supposed  they  worshiped  their 
divinities,  but  the  origin  of  the  custom  is  forgot  amongst  them- 
selves." If  a  man  dies  by  violence,  they  lay  him  out  with  his  hat 
and  shoes  on,  as  if  to  give  him  the  appearance  of  a  wayfarer,  and 
"  symbolize  one  surprised  in  the  great  journey  of  life."  A  woman 
dying  in  childbed  is  dressed  for  the  grave  in  her  bridal  ornaments. 
Mr.  Rose  is  very  scornful  of  the  notion  that  these  people  are  Cim- 
bri, and  holds  that  it  is  "  more  consonant  to  all  the  evidence  of 
history  to  say,  that  the  flux  and  reflux  of  Teutonic  invaders  at 
different  periods  deposited  this  backwater  of  barbarians  "  in  the 
district  they  now  inhabit.  "  The  whole  space,  which  in  addition 
to  the  seven  burghs  contains  twenty-four  villages,  is  bounded  by 
rivers,  alps,  and  hills.  Its  most  precise  limits  are  the  Brenta  to 
the  east,  and  the  Astico  to  the  west." 


248  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

He  was  warmly  dressed  in  clothes  without  rent,  and 
wore  the  clerical  knee-breeches.  He  saluted  us  with 
a  cricket-like  chirpiness  of  manner,  and  was  greatly 
amazed  to  hear  that  we  had  come  all  the  way  from 
America  to  visit  him.  His  hermitage  was  built  upon 
the  side  of  a  white-washed  chapel  to  St.  Francis,  and 
contained  three  or  four  little  rooms  or  cupboards,  in 
which  the  hermit  dwelt  and  meditated.  They 
opened  into  the  chapel,  of  which  the  hermit  had  the 
care,  and  which  he  kept  neat  and  clean  like  himself. 
He  told  us  proudly  that  once  a  year,  on  the  day  of 
the  titular  saint,  a  priest  came  and  said  mass  in  that 
chapel,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  this  was  the  great 
occasion  of  the  old  man's  life.  For  forty  years,  he 
said,  he  had  been  devout ;  and  for  twenty-five  he 
had  dwelt  in  this  place,  where  the  goodness  of  God 
and  the  charity  of  the  poor  people  around  had  kept 
him  from  want.  Altogether,  he  was  a  pleasant 
enough  hermit,  not  in  the  least  spiritual,  but  gentle, 
simple,  and  evidently  sincere.  We  gave  some  small 
coins  of  silver  to  aid  him  to  continue  his  life  of  devo- 
tion, and  Count  Giovanni  bestowed  some  coppers 
with  the  stately  blessing,  "  Iddio  vi  benedica,  padre 
mio  !  " 

So  we  left  the  hermitage,  left  Fozza,  and  started 
down  the  mountain  on  foot,  for  no  one  may  ride 
down  those  steeps.  Long  before  we  reached  the  bot- 
tom, we  had  learned  to  loathe  mountains  and  to  long 
for  dead  levels  during  the  rest  of  life.  Yet  the  de- 
scent was  picturesque,  and  in  some  things  even  more 
interesting  than  the  ascent  had  been.  We  met  more 


A   VISIT  TO   THE   CIMBRI.  249 

people  :  now  melancholy  shepherds  with  their  flocks  ; 
now  swine-herds  and  swine-herdesses  with  herds  of 
wild  black  pigs  of  the  Italian  breed ;  now  men  driv- 
ing asses  that  brayed  and  woke  long,  loud,  and  most 
musical  echoes  in  the  hills  ;  now  whole  peasant  fam- 
ilies driving  cows,  horses,  and  mules  to  the  plains 
below.  On  the  way  down,  fragments  of  autobiog- 
raphy began,  with  the  opportunities  of  conversation, 
to  come  from  the  Count  Giovanni,  and  we  learned 
that  he  was  a  private  soldier  at  home  on  that  permesso 
which  the  Austrian  Government  frequently  gives  its 
less  able-bodied  men  in  times  of  peace.  He  had 
been  at  home  some  years,  and  did  not  expect  to  be 
again  called  into  the  service.  He  liked  much  better 
to  be  in  charge  of  the  cave  at  Oliero  than  to  carry 
the  musket,  though  he  confessed  that  he  liked  to  see 
the  world,  and  that  soldiering  brought  one  acquainted 
with  many  places.  He  had  not  many  ideas,  and  the 
philosophy  of  his  life  chiefly  regarded  deportment  to- 
ward strangers  who  visited  the  cave.  He  held  it  an 
error  in  most  custodians  to  show  discontent  when 
travelers  gave  them  little  ;  and  he  said  that  if  he  re- 
ceived never  so  much,  he  believed  it  wise  not  to  be- 
tray exultation.  "  Always  be  contented,  and  nothing 
more,"  said  Count  Giovanni. 

"  It  is  what  you  people  always  promise  beforehand," 
I  said,  "  when  you  bargain  with  strangers,  to  do  them 
a  certain  service  for  what  they  please  ;  but  after- 
ward they  must  pay  what  you  please  or  have  trouble. 
I  know  you  will  not  be  content  with  what  I  give 
you." 


250  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

"  If  I  am  not  content,"  cried  Count  Giovanni, 
44  call  me  the  greatest  ass  in  the  world  !  " 

And  I  am  bound  to  say  that,  for  all  I  could  see 
through  the  mask  of  his  face,  he  was  satisfied  with 
what  I  gave  him,  though  it  was  not  much. 

He  had  told  us  casually  that  he  was  nephew  of  a 
nobleman  of  a  certain  rich  and  ancient  family  in  Ven- 
ice, who  sent  him  money  while  in  the  army,  but  this 
made  no  great  impression  on  me ;  and  though  I 
knew  there  was  enough  noble  poverty  in  Italy  to 
have  given  rise  to  the  proverb,  Un  conte  che  non  con- 
ta,  non  conta  niente,  yet  I  confess  that  it  was  with  a 
shock  of  surprise  I  heard  our  guide  and  servant  sa- 
luted by  a  lounger  in  Valstagna  with  "  Sior  conte, 
servitor  suo  !  "  I  looked  narrowly  at  him,  but  there 
was  no  ray  of  feeling  or  pride  visible  in  his  pale,  lan- 
guid visage  as  he  responded,  "  Buona  sera,  caro" 

Still,  after  that  revelation  we  simple  plebeians,  who 
had  been  all  day  heaping  shawls  and  guide-books  upon 
Count  Giovanni,  demanding  menial  offices  from  him, 
and  treating  him  with  good-natured  slight,  felt  un- 
comfortable in  his  presence,  and  welcomed  the  ap- 
pearance  of  our  carriage  with  our  driver,  who,  hav- 
ing started  drunk  from  Bassano  in  the  morning,  had 
kept  drunk  all  day  at  Valstagna,  and  who  now  drove 
us  back  wildly  over  the  road,  and  almost  made  us 
sigh  for  the  security  of  mules  ambitious  of  the  brinks 
of  precipices. 


MINOR  TRAVELS, 
i. 

PISA. 

I  AM  afraid  that  the  talk  of  the  modern  railway 
traveler,  if  he  is  honest,  must  be  a  great  deal  of  the 
custodians,  the  vetturini,  and  the  facchini,  whose  agree- 
able acquaintance  constitutes  his  chief  knowledge  of 
the  population  among  which  he  journeys.  We  do  not 
nowadays  carry  letters  recommending  us  to  citizens 
of  the  different  places.  If  we  did,  consider  the 
calamity  we  should  be  to  the  be-traveled  Italian  com 
munities  we  now  bless  !  No,  we  buy  our  through- 
tickets,  and  we  put  up  at  the  hotels  praised  in  the 
hand-book,  and  are  very  glad  of  a  little  conversation 
with  any  native,  however  adulterated  he  be  by  con- 
tact with  the  world  to  which  we  belong.  I  do  not 
blush  to  own  that  I  love  the  whole  rascal  race  which 
ministers  to  our  curiosity  and  preys  upon  us,  and  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  have  spoken  so  often  in  this  book 
of  the  lowly  and  rapacious  but  interesting  porters 
who  opened  to  me  the  different  gates  of  that  great 
realm  of  wonders,  Italy.  I  doubt  if  they  can  be 
much  known  to  the  dwellers  in  the  land,  though  they 


252  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

are  the  intimates  of  all  sojourners  and  passengers  ; 
and  if  I  have  any  regret  in  the  matter,  it  is  that  I 
did  not  more  diligently  study  them  when  I  could. 
The  opportunity  once  lost,  seldom  recurs  ;  they  are 
all  but  as  transitory  as  the  Object  of  Interest  itself. 
I  remember  that  years  ago  when  I  first  visited  Cam- 
bridge, there  was  an  old  man  appeared  to  me  in  the 
character  of  Genius  of  the  College  Grounds,  who 
showed  me  all  the  notable  things  in  our  city,  — 
its  treasures  of  art,  its  monuments,  —  and  ended 
by  taking  me  into  his  wood-house,  and  sawing  me 
off  from  a  wind-fallen  branch  of  the  Washington 
Elm  a  bit  of  the  sacred  wood  for  a  remembrancer. 
Where  now  is  that  old  man  ?  He  no  longer  exists 
for  me,  neither  he  nor  his  wood-house  nor  his  dwell- 
ing-house. Let  me  look  for  a  month  about  the 
College  Grounds,  and  I  shall  not  see  him.  But  some- 
where in  the  regions  of  traveler's  faery  he  still  lives, 
and  he  appears  instantly  to  the  new-comer ;  he  has 
an  understanding  with  the  dryads,  who  keep  him 
supplied  with  boughs  from  the  Washington  Elm,  and 
his  wood-house  is  full  of  them. 

Among  memorable  custodians  in  Italy  was  one 
whom  we  saw  at  Pisa,  where  we  stopped  on  our  way 
from  Leghorn  after  our  accident  in  the  Maremma, 
and  spent  an  hour  in  viewing  the  Quattro  Fabbriche. 
The  beautiful  old  town,  which  every  one  knows  from 
the  report  of  travelers,  one  yet  finds  possessed  of  the 
incommunicable  charm  which  keeps  it  forever  novel 
to  the  visitor.  Lying  upon  either  side  of  the  broad 
Arno,  it  mirrors  in  the  flood  architecture  almost  as 


PISA.  253 

fair  and  noble  as  that  glassed  in  the  Canalazzo, 
and  its  other  streets  seemed  as  tranquil  as  the  canals 
of  Venice.  Those  over  which  we  drove,  on  the  day 
of  our  visit,  were  paved  with  broad  flag-stones,  and 
gave  out  scarcely  a  sound  under  our  wheels.  It  was 
Sunday,  and  no  one  was  to  be  seen.  Yet  the  empty 
and  silent  city  inspired  us  with  no  sense  of  desolation. 
The  palaces  were  in  perfect  repair;  the  pavements 
were  clean ;  behind  those  windows  we  felt  that  there 
must  be  a  good  deal  of  easy,  comfortable  life.  It  is 
said  that  Pisa  is  one  of  the  few  places  in  Europe 
where  the  sweet,  but  timid  spirit  of  Inexpensiveness 
—  everywhere  pursued  by  Railways  —  still  lingers, 
and  that  you  find  cheap  apartments  in  those  well-pre- 
served old  palaces.  No  doubt  it  would  be  worth  more 
to  live  in  Pisa  than  it  would  cost,  for  the  history  of 
the  place  would  alone  be  to  any  reasonable  sojourner 
a  perpetual  recompense,  and  a  princely  income  far 
exceeding  his  expenditure.  To  be  sure,  the  Tower 
of  Famine,  with  which  we  chiefly  associate  the  name 
of  Pisa,  has  been  long  razed  to  the  ground,  and  built 
piecemeal  into  the  neighboring  palaces,  but  you  may 
still  visit  the  dead  wall  which  hides  from  view  the 
place  where  it  stood ;  and  you  may  thense  drive  on, 
as  we  did,  to  the  great  Piazza  where  stands  the  un- 
rivaledest  group  of  architecture  in  the  world,  after 
that  of  St.  Mark's  Place  in  Venice.  There  is 
the  wonderful  Leaning  Tower,  there  is  the  old  and 
beautiful  Duomo,  there  is  the  noble  Baptistery,  there 
is  the  lovely  Campo-Santo,  and  there  —  somewhere 
lurking  in  portal  or  behind  pillar,  and  keeping  out 


254  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

an  eagle-eye  for  the  marveling  stranger  —  is  the 
much-experienced  cicerone  who  shows  you  through 
the  edifices.  Yours  is  the  fourteen-thousandth  Amer- 
ican family  to  which  he  has  had  the  honor  of  acting 
as  guide,  and  he  makes  you  feel  an  illogical  satisfac- 
tion in  thus  becoming  a  contribution  to  statistics. 

We  entered  the  Duomo,  in  our  new  friend's  cus- 
tody, and  we  saw  the  things  which  it  was  well  to  see. 
There  was  mass,  or  some  other  ceremony,  transacting ; 
but  as  usual  it  was  made  as  little  obtrusive  as  possi- 
ble, and  there  was  not  much  to  weaken  the  sense 
of  proprietorship  with  which  travelers  view  objects 
of  interest.  Then  we  ascended  the  Leaning  Tower, 
skillfully  preserving  its  equilibrium  as  we  went  by 
an  inclination  of  our  persons  in  a  direction  opposed  to 
the  tower's  inclination,  but  perhaps  not  receiving  a 
full  justification  of  the  Campanile's  appearance  in  pict- 
ures, till  we  stood  at  its  base,  and  saw  its  vast  bulk 
and  height  as  it  seemed  to  sway  and  threaten  in  the 
blue  sky  above  our  heads.  There  the  sensation  was 
too  terrible  for  endurance,  —  even  the  architectural 
beauty  of  the  tower  could  not  save  it  from  being 
monstrous  to  us,  —  and  we  were  glad  to  hurry  away 
from  it  to  ^;he  serenity  and  solemn  loveliness  of  the 
Campo  Santo. 

Here  are  the  frescos  painted  five  hundred  years 
ago  to  be  ruinous  and  ready  against  the  time  of  your 
arrival  in  1864,  and  you  feel  that  you  are  the  first  to 
enjoy  the  joke  of  the  Vergognosa,  that  cunning  jade 
who  peers  through  her  fingers  at  the  shameful  condi- 
tion of  deboshed  father  Noah,  and  seems  to  wink  one 


PISA.  255 

eye  of  wicked  amusement  at  you.  Turning  after- 
ward to  any  book  written  about  Italy  during  the 
time  specified,  you  find  your  impression  of  exclusive 
possession  of  the  frescos  erroneous,  and  your  muse 
naturally  despairs,  where  so  many  muses  have  labored 
in  vain,  to  give  a  just  idea  of  the  Campo  Santo.  Yet  it 
is  most  worthy  celebration.  Those  exquisitely  arched 
and  traceried  colonnades  seem  to  grow  like  the  slim 
cypresses  out  of  the  sainted  earth  of  Jerusalem  ;  and 
those  old  paintings,  made  when  Art  was  —  if  ever  — 
a  Soul,  and  not  as  now  a  mere  Intelligence,  enforce 
more  effectively  than  their  authors  conceived  the 
lessons  of  life  and  death  ;  for  they  are  themselves 
becoming  part  of  the  triumphant  decay  they  repre- 
sent. If  it  was  awful  once  to  look  upon  that  strange 
scene  where  the  gay  lords  and  ladies  of  the  chase 
come  suddenly  upon  three  dead  men  in  their  coffins, 
while  the  devoted  hermits  enjoy  the  peace  of  a  dismal 
righteousness  on  a  hill  in  the  background,  it  is  yet 
more  tragic  to  behold  it  now  when  the  dead  men  are 
hardly  discernible  in  their  coffins,  and  the  hermits 
are  but  the  vaguest  shadows  of  gloomy  bliss.  Alas  ! 
Death  mocks  even  the  homage  done  him  by  our  poor 
fears  and  hopes  :  with  dust  he  wipes  out  dust,  and 
with  decay  he  blots  the  image  of  decay. 

I  assure  the  reader  that  I  made  none  of  these  apt 
reflections  in  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  but  have  writ- 
ten them  out  this  morning  in  Cambridge  because  there 
happens  to  be  an  east  wind  blowing.  No  one  could 
have  been  sad  in  the  company  of  our  cheerful  and 
patient  cicerone,  who,  although  visibly  anxious  to  get 


256  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

his  fourteen-thousandth  American  family  away,  still 
would  not  go  till  he  had  shown  us  that  monument 
to  a  dead  enmity  which  hangs  in  the  Campo  Santo. 
This  is  the  mighty  chain  which  the  Pisans,  in  their 
old  wars  with  the  Genoese,  once  stretched  across  the 
mouth  of  their  harbor  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  the 
hostile  galleys.  The  Genoese  with  no  great  trouble 
carried  the  chain  away,  and  kept  it  ever  afterward 
till  1860,  when  Pisa  was  united  to  the  kingdom  of 
Italy.  Then  the  trophy  was  restored  to  the  Pisans, 
and  with  public  rejoicings  placed  in  the  Campo 
Santo,  an  emblem  of  reconciliation  and  perpetual 
amity  between  ancient  foes.*  It  is  not  a  very  good 
world,  —  e  pur  si  muove. 

The  Baptistery  stands  but  a  step  away  from  the 
Campo  Santo,  and  our  guide  ushered  us  into  it  with 
the  air  of.  one  who  had  till  now  held  in  reserve  his 
great  stroke  and  was  ready  to  deliver  it.  Yet  I  think 
he  waited  till  we  had  looked  at  some  comparatively 
trifling  sculptures  by  Nicolo  Pisano  before  he  raised 
his  voice,  and  uttered  a  melodious  specie^  of  howl. 
While  we  stood  in  some  amazement  at  this,  the 
conscious  structure  of  the  dome  caught  the  sound 
and  prolonged  it  with  a  variety  and  sweetness  of 
which  I  could  not  have  dreamed.  The  man  poured 

*  I  read  in  Mr.  Norton's  Notes  of  Travel  and  Study  in  Italy,  that  he 
saw  in  the  Campo  Santo,  as  long  ago  as  1856, "  the  chains  that  marked 
the  servitude  of  Pisa,  now  restored  by  Florence,"  and  it  is  of  course  pos- 
sible that  our  cicerone  may  have  employed  one  of  those  chains  for  the 
different  historical  purpose  I  have  mentioned.  It  would  be  a  thousand 
pities,  I  think,  if  a  monument  of  that  sort  should  be  limited  to  the  com' 
memoration  of  one  fact  only. 


PISA.  257 

out  in  quick  succession  his  musical  wails,  and  then 
ceased,  and  a  choir  of  heavenly  echoes  burst  forth  in 
response.  There  was  a  supernatural  beauty  in  these 
harmonies  of  which  I  despair  of  giving  any  true  idea : 
they  were  of  such  tender  and  exalted  rapture  that  we 
might  well  have  thought  them  the  voices  of  young- 
eyed  cherubim,  singing  as  they  passed  through  Para- 
dise over  that  spot  of  earth  where  we  stood.  They 
seemed  a  celestial  compassion  that  stooped  and 
soothed,  and  rose  again  in  lofty  and  solemn  acclaim, 
leaving  us  poor  and  penitent  and  humbled. 

We  were  long  silent,  and  then  broke  forth  with 
cries  of  admiration  of  which  the  marvelous  echo 
made  eloquence. 

"  Did  you  ever,"  said  the  cicerone  after  we  had 
left  the  building,  " hear  such  music  as  that?  " 

"  The  papal  choir  does  not  equal  it,"  we  answered 
with  one  voice. 

The  cicerone  was  not  to  be  silenced  even  with 
such  a  tribute,  and  he  went  on : 

"  Perhaps,  as  you  are  Americans,  you  know  Moshu 
Feelmore,  the  President  ?  No  ?  Ah,  what  a  fine 
man  !  You  saw  that  he  had  his  heart  actually  in  his 
hand  !  Well,  one  day  he  said  to  me  here,  when  I 
told  him  of  the  Baptistery  echo,  '  We  have  the 
finest  echo  in  the  world  in  the  Hall  of  Congress.' 
I  said  nothing,  but  for  answer  I  merely  howled  a 
little,  —  thus  !  Moshu  Feelmore  was  convinced.  Said 
he,  'There  is  no  other  echo  in  the  world  besides 
this.  You  are  right.'  I  am  unique,"  pursued  the 
cicerone,  "  for  making  this  echo.  But,"  he  added 

17 


258  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

with  a  sigh,  "  it  has  been  my  ruin.  The  English 
have  put  me  in  all  the  guide-books,  and  sometimes  I 
have  to  howl  twenty  times  a  day.  When  our  Victor 
Emanuel  came  here  I  showed  him  the  church,  the 
tower,  and  the  Campo  Santo.  Says  the  king,  '  Pfui ! ' ' 
—  here  the  cicerone  gave  that  sweeping  outward 
motion  with  both  hands  by  which  Italians  dismiss 
a  trifling  subject  —  "  '  make  me  the  echo  ! '  I  was 
forced,"  concluded  the  cicerone  with  a  strong  sense 
of  injury  in  his  tone,  "  to  howl  half  an  hour  without 
ceasing." 


II. 

THE    FERRARA    ROAD. 

THE  delight  of  one  of  our  first  journeys  over  the 
road  between  Padua  and  Ferrara  was  a  Roman 
cameriere  out  of  place,  who  got  into  the  diligence  at 
Ponte  Lagoscuro.  We  were  six  in  all :  The  Eng- 
lishman who  thought  it  particularly  Italian  to  say 
"  Si"  three  times  for  every  assent;  the  Veneto  (as 
the  citizen  of  the  province  calls  himself,  the  native 
of  the  city  being  Veneziano)  going  home  to  his  farm 
near  Padua  ;  the  German  lady  of  a  sour  and  dreadful 
countenance ;  our  two  selves,  and  the  Roman  came" 
riere.  The  last  was  worth  all  the  rest  —  being  a  man 
of  vast  general  information  acquired  in  the  course  of 
service  with  families  of  all  nations,  and  agreeably 
communicative.  A  brisk  and  lively  little  man,  with 
dancing  eyes,  beard  cut  to  the  mode  of  the  Emperor 
Napoleon,  and  the  impressive  habit  of  tapping  him- 
self on  the  teeth  with  his  railroad-guide,  and  lifting 
his  eyebrows  when  he  says  any  thing  specially  worthy 
of  remark.  He,  also,  long  after  the  conclusion  of  an 
observation,  comes  back  to  himself  approvingly,  with 
"$2/"  "  Vabene!"  "Ecco!"  He  speaks  beauti- 
ful Italian  and  constantly,  and  in  a  little  while  we 
know  that  he  was  born  at  Ferrara,  bred  at  Venice, 


260  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

and  is  now  a  citizen  of  Rome.  "  St.  Peter's,  Signori, 
—  have  you  ever  seen  it?  —  is  the  first  church  of  the 
world.  At  Ferrara  lived  Tasso  and  Ariosto.  Venice 
is  a  lovely  city.  Ah  !  what  beauty  !  But  unique. 
My  second  country.  Si,  Signori,  la  mia  seconda 
patriot"  After  a  pause,  "  Va  lene" 

We  hint  to  him  that  he  is  extremely  fortunate  in 
having  so  many  countries,  and  that  it  will  be  difficult 
to  exile  so  universal  a  citizen,  which  he  takes  as  a 
tribute  to  his  worth,  smiles  and  says,  "  Ecco  !  " 

Then  he  turns  to  the  Veneto,  and  describes  to  him 
the  English  manner  of  living.  "  Wonderfully  well 
they  eat  —  the  English.  Four  times  a  day.  With 
rosbif  at  the  dinner.  Always,  always,  always  !  And 
tea  in  the  evening,  with  rosbif  cold.  Mangiano 
sempre.  Ma  bene,  dico"  After  a  pause,  "  Si  /  "  "  And 
the  Venetians,  they  eat  well,  too.  Whence  the 
proverb  :  '  Sulla  Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  si  mangiano 
lei  bocconi.'*  ('  On  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  you  eat 
fine  mouthfuls.')  Signori,  I  am  going  to  Venice," 
concludes  the  cameriere. 

He  is  the  politest  man  in  the  world,  and  the  most 
attentive  to  ladies.  The  German  lady  has  not  spoken 
a  word,  possibly  not  knowing  the  language.  Our 
good  cameriere  cannot  bear  this,  and  commiserates 
her  weariness  with  noble  elegance  and  originality. 
"  La  Signora  si  trova  un  poco  sagrificata  ?  "  ("  The 
lady  feels  slightly  sacrificed !  ")  We  all  smile,  and 
the  little  man  very  gladly  with  us. 

"An  elegant  way  of  expressing  it,*'  we  venture  to 
suggest.  The  Veneto  roars  and  roars  again,  and  we 


THE   FERRARA  ROAD.  261 

all  shriek,  none  louder  than  the  Roman  himself. 
We  never  can  get  over  that  idea  of  being  slightly 
sacrificed,  and  it  lasts  us  the  whole  way  to  Padua ; 
and  when  the  Veneto  gets  down  at  his  farm-gate, 
he  first  "  reverences  "  us,  and  then  says,  "  I  am  very 
sorry  for  you  others  who  must  be  still  more  slightly 
sacrificed." 

At  Venice,  a  week  or  two  later,  I  meet  our  came- 
riere.  He  is  not  so  gay,  quite,  as  he  was,  and  I  fan- 
cy that  he  has  not  found  so  many  bei  bocconi  on  the 
Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  as  the  proverb  and  a  sanguine 
temperament  led  him  to  expect.  Do  I  happen  to 
know,  he  asks,  any  American  family  going  to  Rome 
and  desiring  a  cameriere  ? 

As  I  write,  the  Spring  is  coming  in  Cambridge,  and 
I  cannot  help  thinking,  with  a  little  heartache,  of  how 
the  Spring  came  to  meet  us  once  as  we  rode  south- 
ward from  Venice  toward  Florence  on  that  road  from 
Padua  to  Ferrara.  It  had  been  May  for  some  time 
in  Tuscany,  and  all  through  the  wide  plains  of 
Venetia  this  was  the  railroad  landscape :  fields  tilled 
and  tended  as  jealously  as  gardens,  and  waving  in 
wheat,  oats,  and  grass,  with  here  and  there  the  hay 
cut  already,  and  here  and  there  acres  of  Indian 
corn.  The  green  of  the  fields  was  all  dashed  with 
the  bloody  red  of  poppies ;  the  fig-trees  hung  full 
of  half-grown  fruit ;  the  orchards  were  garlanded 
with  vines,  which  they  do  not  bind  to  stakes  in  Italy, 
but  train  from  tree  to  tree,  leaving  them  to  droop  in 
festoons  and  sway  in  the  wind,  with  the  slender  na- 


262  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

tive  grace  of  vines.  Huge  stone  farm-houses  shelter 
under  the  same  roof  the  family  and  all  the  live  stock 
of  the  farm ;  thatched  cottages  thickly  dotting  the 
fields,  send  forth  to  their  cultivation  the  most  pictur- 
esque peasants,  —  men  and  women,  pretty  young 
girls  in  broad  hats,  and  wonderful  old  brown  and 
crooked  crones,  who  seem  never  to  have  been 
younger  nor  fairer.  Country  roads,  level,  straight, 
and  white,  stretch  away  on  either  hand,  and  the  con- 
stant files  of  poplars  escort  them  wherever  they  go. 
All  about,  the  birds  sing,  and  the  butterflies  dance. 
The  milk-white  oxen  dragging  the  heavy  carts  turn 
up  their  patient  heads,  with  wide-spreading  horns  and 
mellow  eyes,  at  the  passing  train ;  the  sunburnt  lout 
behind  them  suspends  the  application  of  the  goad ; 
unwonted  acquiescence  stirs  in  the  bosom  of  the  firm- 
minded  donkey,  and  even  the  matter-of-fact  locomo- 
tive seems  to  linger  as  lovingly  as  a  locomotive  may 
along  these  plains  of  Spring. 

At  Padua  we  take  a  carriage  for  Ponte  Lagoscuro, 
and  having  fought  the  customary  battle  with  the  vet- 
turino  before  arriving  at  the  terms  of  contract ;  having 
submitted  to  the  successive  pillage  of  the  man  who 
had  held  our  horses  a  moment,  of  the  man  who  tied 
on  the  trunk,  and  of  the  man  who  hovered  obligingly 
about  the  carriage,  and  desired  to  drink  our  health  — 
with  prodigious  smacking  of  whip,  and  banging  of 
wheels,  we  rattle  out  of  the  Stella  d'Oro,  and  set 
forth  from  the  gate  of  the  old  city. 

I  confess  that  I  like  posting.  There  is  a  freedom 
and  a  fine  sense  of  proprietorship  in  that  mode  of 


THE  FERRARA  ROAD.  263 

travel,  combined  with  sufficient  speed,  which  you  do 
not  feel  on  the  railroad.  For  twenty  francs  and  buona 
mano,  I  had  bought  my  carriage  and  horses  and  dri- 
ver for  the  journey  of  forty  miles,  and  I  began  to 
look  round  on  the  landscape  with  a  cumulative  feel- 
ing of  ownership  in  every  thing  I  saw.  For  me,  old 
women  spinning  in  old-world  fashion,  with  distaff  and 
spindle,  flax  as  white  as  their  own  hair,  came  to  road- 
side doors,  or  moved  back  and  forth  under  orchard 
trees.  For  me,  the  peasants  toiled  in  the  fields  to- 
gether, wearing  for  my  sake  wide  straw  hats,  or 
gay  ribbons,  or  red  caps.  The  white  oxen  were 
willing  to  mass  themselves  in  effective  groups,  as  the 
ploughman  turned  the  end  of  his  furrow ;  young 
girls  specially  appointed  themselves  to  lead  horses  to 
springs  as  we  passed ;  children  had  larger  eyes  and 
finer  faces  and  played  more  about  the  cottage  doors, 
on  account  of  our  posting.  As  for  the  vine-garland- 
ed trees  in  the  orchards,  and  the  opulence  of  the  end- 
less fertile  plain ;  the  white  distance  of  the  road  be- 
fore us  with  its  guardian  poplars,  —  I  doubt  if  people 
in  a  diligence  could  have  got  so  much  of  these  things 
as  we.  Certainly  they  could  not  have  had  all  to 
themselves  the  lordly  splendor  with  which  we  dashed 
through  gaping  villages,  taking  the  street  from  every 
body,  and  fading  magnificently  away  upon  the  road. 


III. 

TRIESTE. 

IF  you  take  the  midnight  steamer  at  Venice  you 
reach  Trieste  by  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the 
hills  rise  to  meet  you  as  you  enter  the  broad  bay 
dotted  with  the  sail  of  fishing-craft.  The  hills  are 
bald  and  bare,  and  you  find,  as  you  draw  near,  that 
the  city  lies  at  their  feet  under  a  veil  of  mist,  or 
climbs  earlier  into  view  along  their  sides.  The  pros- 
pect is  singularly  devoid  of  gentle  and  pleasing  feat- 
ures, and  looking  at  those  rugged  acclivities,  with 
their  aspect  of  continual  bleakness,  you  readily  believe 
all  the  stories  you  have  heard  of  that  fierce  wind 
called  the  Bora  which  sweeps  from  them  through 
Trieste  at  certain  seasons.  While  it  blows,  ladies 
walking  near  the  quays  are  sometimes  caught  up  and 
set  afloat,  involuntary  Galateas,  in  the  bay,  and  people 
keep  in-doors  as  much  as  possible.  But  the  Bora, 
though  so  sudden  and  so  savage,  does  give  warning 
of  its  rise,  and  the  peasants  avail  themselves  of  this 
characteristic.  They  station  a  man  on  one  of  the 
mountain  tops,  and  when  he  feels  the  first  breath  of 
the  Bora,  he  sounds  a  horn,  which  is  a  signal  for  all 
within  hearing  to  lay  hold  of  something  that  cannot 
be  blown  away,  and  cling  to  it  till  the  wind  falls. 


TRIESTE.  265 

This  may  happen  in  three  days  or  in  nine,  according 
to  the  popular  proverbs.  "  The  spectacle  of  the  sea," 
says  Dall'  Ongaro,  in  a  note  to  one  of  his  ballads, 
"  while  the  Bora  blows,  is  sublime,  and  when  it  ceases 
the  prospect  of  the  surrounding  hills  is  delightful. 
The  air,  purified  by  the  rapid  current,  clothes  them 
with  a  rosy  veil,  and  the  temperature  is  instantly 
softened,  even  in  the  heart  of  winter." 

The  city  itself,  as  you  penetrate  it,  makes  good 
with  its  stateliness  and  picturesqueness  your  loss 
through  the  grimness  of  its  environs.  It  is  in  great 
part  new,  very  clean,  and  full  of  the  life  and  move- 
ment of  a  prosperous  port ;  but,  better  than  this,  so 
far  as  the  mere  sight-seer  is  concerned,  it  wins  a 
novel  charm  from  the  many  public  staircases  by 
which  you  ascend  and  descend  its  hillier  quarters, 
and  which  are  made  of  stone,  and  lightly  railed  and 
balustraded  with  iron. 

Something  of  all  this  I  noticed  in  my  ride  from  the 
landing  of  the  steamer  to  the  house  of  friends  in  the 
suburbs,  and  there  I  grew  better  disposed  toward 
the  hills,  which,  as  I  strolled  over  them,  I  found 
dotted  with  lovely  villas,  and  everywhere  trav- 
ersed by  perfectly- kept  carriage-roads,  and  easy  and 
pleasant  foot-paths.  It  was  in  the  spring-time,  and 
the  peach-trees  and  almond-trees  hung  full  of  blos- 
soms and  bees,  the  lizards  lay  in  the  walks  absorbing 
the  vernal  sunshine,  the  violets  and  cowslips  sweet- 
ened all  the  grassy  borders.  The  scene  did  not  want 
a  human  interest,  for  the  peasant  girls  were  going  to 
market  at  that  hour,  and  I  met  them  everywhere, 


266  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

bearing  heavy  burdens  on  their  own  heads,  or  hurry- 
ing forward  with  their  wares  on  the  backs  of  donkeys. 
They  were  as  handsome  as  heart  could  wish,  and 
they  wore  that  Italian  costume  which  is  not  to  be  seen 
anywhere  in  Italy  except  at  Trieste  and  in  the  Ro- 
man and  Neapolitan  provinces,  —  a  bright  bodice  and 
gown,  with  the  head-dress  of  dazzling  white  linen, 
square  upon  the  crown,  and  dropping  lightly  to  the 
shoulders.  Later  I  saw  these  comely  maidens  crouch- 
ing on  the  ground  in  the  market-place,  and  selling 
their  wares,  with  much  glitter  of  eyes,  teeth,  and  ear- 
rings, and  a  continual  babble  of  bargaining. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  average  of  good  looks 
was  greater  among  the  women  of  Trieste  than  among 
those  of  Venice,  but  that  the  instances  of  striking 
and  exquisite  beauty  were  rarer.  At  Trieste,  too, 
the  Italian  type,  so  pure  at  Venice,  is  lost  or  contin- 
ually modified  by  the  mixed  character  of  the  popula- 
tion, which  perhaps  is  most  noticeable  at  the  Mer- 
chants' Exchange.  This  is  a  vast  edifice  roofed  with 
glass,  where  are  the  offices  of  the  great  steam  naviga- 
tion company,  the  Austrian  Lloyds,  —  which,  far 
more  than  the  favor  of  the  Imperial  government,  has 
contributed  to  the  prosperity  of  Trieste,  —  and  where 
the  traffickers  of  all  races  meet  daily  to  gossip  over 
the  news  and  the  prices.  Here  a  Greek  or  Dalmat 
talks  with  an  eager  Italian  or  a  slow,  sure  English- 
man ;  here  the  hated  Austrian  button-holes  the  Ve- 
netian or  the  Magyar ;  here  the  Jew  meets  the  Gen- 
tile on  common  ground  ;  here  Christianity  encounters 
the  hoary  superstitions  of  the  East,  and  makes  a  good 


TRIESTE.  267 

thing  out  of  them  in  cotton  or  grain.  All  costumes 
are  seen  here,  and  all  tongues  are  heard,  the  native 
Triestines  contributing  almost  as  much  to  the  variety 
of  the  latter  as  the  foreigners.  "  In  regard  to  lan- 
guage," says  Cantii,  "  though  the  country  is  peopled 
by  Slavonians,  yet  the  Italian  tongue  is  spreading  into 
the  remotest  villages  where  a  few  years  since  it  was  not 
understood.  In  the  city  it  is  the  common  and  famil- 
iar language ;  the  Slavonians  of  the  North  use  the 
German  for  the  language  of  ceremony  ;  those  of  the 
South,  as  well  as  the  Israelites,  the  Italian  ;  while  the 
Protestants  use  the  German,  the  Greeks  the  Hellenic 
and  Illyric,  the  employes  of  the  civil  courts  the  Ital- 
ian or  the  German,  the  schools  now  German  and  now 
Italian,  the  bar  and  the  pulpit  Italian.  Most  of  the 
inhabitants,  indeed,  are  bi-lingual,  and  very  many 
tri-lingual,  without  counting  French,  which  is  under- 
stood and  spoken  from  infancy.  Italian,  German,  and 
Greek  are  written,  but  the  Slavonic  little,  this  having 
remained  in  the  condition  of  a  vulgar  tongue.  But 
it  would  be  idle  to  distinguish  the  population  accord- 
ing to  language,  for  the  son  adopts  a  language  differ- 
ent from  the  father's,  and  now  prefers  one  language 
and  now  another ;  the  women  incline  to  the  Italian  ; 
but  those  of  the  upper  class  prefer  now  German,  now 
French,  now  English,  as,  from  one  decade  to  another, 
affairs,  fashions,  and  fancies  change.  This  in  the  sa- 
lons ;  in  the  squares  and  streets,  the  Venetian  dialect 
is  heard.*' 

And  with  the  introduction  of  the  Venetian  dialect, 
Venetian  discontent  seems  also  to  have  crept  in,  and 


268  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

I  once  heard  a  Triestine  declaim  against  the  Imperial 
government  quite  in  the  manner  of  Venice.  It  struck 
me  that  this  desire  for  union  with  Italy,  which  he 
declared  prevalent  in  Trieste  must  be  of  very  recent 
growth,  since  even  so  late  as  1848,  Trieste  had  re- 
fused to  join  Venice  in  the  expulsion  of  the  Austrians. 
Indeed,  the  Triestines  have  fought  the  Venetians  from 
the  first ;  they  stole  the  Brides  of  Venice  in  one  of 
their  piratical  cruises  in  the  lagoons ;  gave  aid  and 
comfort  to  those  enemies  of  Venice,  the  Visconti,  the 
Carraras,  and  the  Genoese  ;  revolted  from  St.  Mark 
whenever  subjected  to  his  banner,  and  finally,  rather 
than  remain  under  his  sway,  gave  themselves  five 
centuries  ago  to  Austria. 

The  objects  of  interest  in  Trieste  are  not  many. 
There  are  remains  of  an  attributive  temple  of  Jupiter 
under  the  Duomo,  and  there  is  near  at  hand  the 
Museum  of  Classical  Antiquities  founded  in  honor  of 
Winckelmann,  murdered  at  Trieste  by  that  ill-advised 
Pistojese,  Ancangeli,  who  had  seen  the  medals  be- 
stowed on  the  antiquary  by  Maria  Theresa  and 
believed  him  rich.  There  is  also  a  scientific  museum 
founded  by  the  Archduke  Maximilian,  and,  above 
all,  there  is  the  beautiful  residence  of  that  ill-starred 
prince,  —  the  Miramare,  where  the  half-crazed  Em- 
press of  the  Mexicans  vainly  waits  her  husband's  re- 
turn from  the  experiment  of  paternal  government  in 
the  New  World.  It  would  be  hard  to  tell  how  Art 
has  charmed  rock  and  wave  at  Miramare,  until  the 
spur  of  one  of  those  rugged  Triestine  hills,  jutting 
into  the  sea,  has  been  made  the  seat  of  ease  and 


TRIESTE.  269 

luxury,  but  the  visitor  is  aware  of  the  magic  as  soon 
as  he  passes  the  gate  of  the  palace  grounds.  These 
are  in  great  part  perpendicular,  and  are  over  clam- 
bered with  airy  stairways  climbing  to  pensile  arbors. 
Where  horizontal,  they  are  diversified  with  mimic 
seas  for  swans  to  sail  upon,  and  summer-houses  for 
people  to  lounge  in  and  look  at  the  swans  from.  On 
the  point  of  land  furthest  from  the  acclivity  stands 
the  Castle  of  Miramare,  half  at  sea,  and  half  adrift 
in  the  clouds  above  :  — 

"  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 

To  the  mirrored  wave  below  ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

I  remember  that  a  little  yacht  lay  beside  the  pier 
at  the  castle's  foot,  and  lazily  flapped  its  sail,  while 
the  sea  beat  inward  with  as  languid  a  pulse.  That 
was  some  years  ago,  before  Mexico  was  dreamed  of 
at  Miramare :  now,  perchance,  she  who  is  one  of  the 
most  unhappy  among  women  looks  down  distraught 
from  those  high  windows,  and  finds  in  the  helpless 
sail  and  impassive  wave  the  images  of  her  baffled 
hope,  and  that  immeasurable  sea  which  gives  back 
its  mariners  neither  to  love  nor  sorrow.  I  think 
though  she  be  the  wife  and  daughter  of  princes,  we 
may  pity  this  poor  Empress  at  least  as  much  as  we 
pity  the  Mexicans  to  whom  her  dreams  have  brought 
so  many  woes. 

It  was  the  midnight  following  my  visit  to  Mira- 
mare when  the  fiacre  in  which  I  had  quitted  my 
friend's  house  was  drawn  up  by  its  greatly  bewil- 


270  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

dered  driver  on  the  quay  near  the  place  where  the 
steamer  for  Venice  should  be  lying.  There  was  no 
steamer  for  Venice  to  be  seen.  The  driver  swore 
a  little  in  the  polyglot  profanities  of  his  native  city, 
and  descending  from  his  box,  went  and  questioned 
different  lights  —  blue  lights,  yellow  lights,  green 
lights  —  to  be  seen  at  different  points.  To  a  light, 
they  were  ignorant,  though  eloquent,  and  to  pass  the 
time,  we  drove  up  and  down  the  quay,  and  stopped 
at  the  landings  of  all  the  steamers  that  touch  at 
Trieste.  It  was  a  snug  fiacre  enough,  but  I  did  not 
care  to  spend  the  night  in  it,  and  I  urged  the  driver 
to  further  inquiry.  A  wanderer  whom  we  met,  de- 
clared that  it  was  not  the  night  for  the  Venice 
steamer  ;  another  admitted  that  it  might  be  ;  a  third 
conversed  with  the  driver  in  low  tones,  and  then 
leaped  upon  the  box.  We  drove  rapidly  away,  and 
before  I  had,  in  view  of  this  mysterious  proceeding, 
composed  a  fitting  paragraph  for  the  Fatti  Diversi  of 
the  Osservatore  Triestino,  descriptive  of  the  state  in 
which  the  Guardie  di  Polizia  should  find  me  floating 
in  the  bay,  exanimate  and  evidently  the  prey  of  a 
triste  evvenimento  —  the  driver  pulled  up  once  more, 
and  now  beside  a  steamer.  It  was  the  steamer  for 
Venice,  he  said,  in  precisely  the  tone  which  he  would 
have  used  had  he  driven  me  directly  to  it  without 
blundering.  It  was  breathing  heavily,  and  was  just 
about  to  depart,  but  even  in  the  hurry  of  getting  on 
board,  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  it  seemed  to 
have  grown  a  great  deal  since  I  had  last  voyaged  in 
it.  There  was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen  except  the  mute 


TRIESTE.  271 

steward  who  took  my  satchel,  and  guiding  me  below 
into  an  elegant  saloon,  instantly  left  me  alone.  Here 
again  the  steamer  was  vastly  enlarged.  These  were 
not  the  narrow  quarters  of  the  Venice  steamer,  nor 
was  this  lamp,  shedding  a  soft  light  on  cushioned 
seats  and  paneled  doors  and  wainscotings  the  sort  of 
illumination  usual  in  that  humble  craft.  I  rang  the 
small  silver  bell  on  the  long  table,  and  the  mute 
steward  appeared. 

Was  this  the  steamer  for  Venice  ? 

Sicuro  ! 

All  that  I  could  do  in  comment  was  to  sit  down  ; 
and  in  the  mean  time  the  steamer  trembled,  groaned, 
choked,  cleared  its  throat,  and  we  were  under  way. 

"  The  other  passengers  have  all  gone  to  bed,  I  sup- 
pose," I  argued  acutely,  seeing  none  of  them.  Never- 
theless, I  thought  it  odd,  and  it  seemed  a  shrewd 
means  of  relief  to  ring  the  bell,  and  pretending 
drowsiness,  to  ask  the  steward  which  was  my  state- 
room. 

He  replied  with  a  curious  smile  that  I  could  have 
any  of  them.  Amazed,  I  yet  selected  a  state-room, 
and  while  the  steward  was  gone  for  the  sheets  and 
pillow-cases,  I  occupied  my  time  by  opening  the  doors 
of  all  the  other  state-rooms.  They  were  empty. 

"  Am  I  the  only  passenger  ?  "  I  asked,  when  he 
returned,  with  some  anxiety. 

"  Precisely,"  he  answered. 

I  could  not  proceed  and  ask  if  he  composed  the 
entire  crew  —  it  seemed  too  fearfully  probable  that 
he  did. 


272  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

I  now  suspected  that  I  had  taken  passage  with 
the  Olandese  Volante.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
world  for  it,  however,  but  to  go  to  bed,  and  there, 
with  the  accession  of  a  slight  sea-sickness,  my  views 
of  the  situation  underwent  a  total  change.  I  had 
gone  down  into  the  Maelstrom  with  the  Ancient 
Mariner  —  I  was  a  Manuscript  Found  in  a  Bottle ! 

Coining  to  the  surface  about  six  o'clock  A.  M.,  I 
found  a  daylight  as  cheerful  as  need  be  upon  the 
appointments  of  the  elegant  cabin,  and  upon  the  good- 
natured  face  of  the  steward  when  he  brought  me 
the  caffe  latte,  and  the  buttered  toast  for  my  break 
fast.  He  said  "Servitor  suo!"  in  a  loud  and  com- 
fortable voice,  and  I  perceived  the  absurdity  of  hav- 
ing thought  that  he  was  in  any  way  related  to  the 
Nightmare-Death-in-life-that-thicks-man's-blood-with- 
cold. 

"  This  is  not  the  regular  Venice  steamer,  I  sup- 
pose," I  remarked  to  the  steward  as  he  laid  my 
breakfast  in  state  upon  the  long  table. 

No.  Properly,  no  boat  should  have  left  for  Venice 
last  night,  which  was  not  one  of  the  times  of  the  tri- 
weekly departure.  This  was  one  of  the  steamers 
of  the  line  between  Trieste  and  Alexandria,  and  it 
was  going  at  present  to  take  on  an  extraordinary 
freight  at  Venice  for  Egypt.  I  had  been  permitted 
to  come  on  board  because  my  driver  said  I  had  a 
return  ticket,  and  would  go. 

Ascending  to  the  deck  I  found  nothing  whatever 
mysterious  in  the  management  of  the  steamer.  The 
captain  met  me  with  a  bow  in  the  gangway  ;  seamen 


TRIESTE.  273 

were  coiling  wet  ropes  at  different  points,  as  they 
always  are  ;  the  mate  was  promenading  the  bridge, 
and  taking  the  rainy  weather  as  it  came,  with  his 
oil-cloth  coat  and  hat  on.  The  wheel  of  the  steamer 
was  as  usual  chewing  the  sea,  and  finding  it  unpala- 
table, and  making  vain  efforts  at  expectoration. 

We  were  in  sight  of  the  breakwater  outside  Mala- 
mocco,  and  a  pilot-boat  was  making  us  from  the  land. 
Even  at  this  point  the  innumerable  fortifications  of 
the  Austrians  began,  and  they  multiplied  as  we  drew 
near  Venice,  till  we  entered  the  lagoon,  and  found 
it  a  nest  of  fortresses  one  with  another. 

Unhappily  the  day  being  rainy,  Venice  did  not 
spring  resplendent  from  the  sea,  as  I  had  always  read 
she  would.  She  rose  slowly  and  languidly  from  the 
water,  —  not  like  a  queen,  but  like  the  gray,  slovenly, 
bedrabbled,  heart-broken  old  slave  she  really  was. 


18 


IV. 

BASSANO. 

I  HAVE  already  told,  in  recounting  the  story  of  our 
visit  to  the  Cimbri,  how  full  of  courtship  we  found 
the  little  city  of  Bassano  on  the  evening  of  our  arrival 
there.  Bassano  is  the  birthplace  of  the  painter  Jacopo 
da  Ponte,  who  was  one  of  the  first  Italian  painters 
to  treat  scriptural  story  as  accessory  to  mere  land- 
scape, and  who  had  a  peculiar  fondness  for  painting 
Entrances  into  the  Ark,  for  in  these  he  could  indulge 
without  stint  the  taste  for  pairing-off  early  acquired 
from  observation  of  local  customs  in  his  native  town. 
This  was  the  theory  offered  by  one  who  had  imbibed 
the  spirit  of  subtile  speculation  from  Ruskin,  and  I 
think  it  reasonable.  At  least  it  does  not  conflict 
with  the  fact  that  there  is  at  Bassano  a  most  excel- 
lent gallery  of  paintings  entirely  devoted  to  the  works 
of  Jacopo  da  Ponte,  and  his  four  sons,  who  are  here 
to  be  seen  to  better  advantage  than  anywhere  else. 
As  few  strangers  visit  Bassano,  the  gallery  is  little 
frequented.  It  is  in  charge  of  a  very  strict  old  man, 
who  will  not  allow  people  to  look  at  the  pictures  till 
he  has  shown  them  the  adjoining  cabinet  of  geological 
specimens.  It  is  in  vain  that  you  assure  him  of  your 
indifference  to  these  scientific  seccature  ;  he  is  deaf, 


BASSANO.  275 

and  you  are  not  suffered  to  escape  a  single  fossil. 
He  asked  us  a  hundred  questions,  and  understood 
nothing  in  reply,  insomuch  that  when  he  came  to  his 
last  inquiry,  "  Have  the  Protestants  the  same  God 
as  the  Catholics  ? "  we  were  rather  glad  that  he 
should  be  obliged  to  settle  the  fact  for  himself. 

Underneath  the  gallery  was  a  school  of  boys, 
whom  as  we  entered  we  heard  humming  over  the 
bitter  honey  which  childhood  is  obliged  to  gather 
from  the  opening  flowers  of  orthography.  When  we 
passed  out,  the  master  gave  these  poor  busy  bees  an 
atom  of  holiday,  and  they  all  swarmed  forth  together 
to  look  at  the  strangers.  The  teacher  was  a  long, 
lank  man,  in  a  black  threadbare  coat,  and  a  skull-cap 
—  exactly  like  the  schoolmaster  in  "  The  Deserted 
Village."  We  made  a  pretense  of  asking  him  our 
way  to  somewhere,  and  went  wrong,  and  came  by 
accident  upon  a  wide  flat  space,  bare  as  a  brick-yard, 
beside  which  was  lettered  on  a  fragment  of  the  old 
city  wall,  "  Giuoco  di  Palla."  It  was  evidently  the 
playground  of  the  whole  city,  and  it  gave  us  a  pleas- 
anter  idea  of  life  in  Bassano  than  we  had  yet  con- 
ceived, to  think  of  its  entire  population  playing  ball 
there  in  the  spring  afternoons.  We  respected  Bas- 
sano as  much  for  this  as  for  her  diligent  remembrance 
of  her  illustrious  dead,  of  whom  she  has  very  great 
numbers.  It  appeared  to  us  that  nearly  every  other 
house  bore  a  tablet  announcing  that  "  Here  was  born," 
or  "  Here  died,"  some  great  or  good  man  of  whom  no 
one  out  of  Bassano  ever  heard.  There  is  enough  ce- 
lebrity in  Bassano  to  supply  the  world ;  but  as  laurel 


276  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

is  a  thing  that  grows  anywhere,  I  covet  rather  from 
Bassano  the  magnificent  ivy  that  covers  the  portions 
of  her  ancient  wall  yet  standing.  The  wall,  where 
visible,  is  seen  to  be  of  a  pebbly  rough-cast,  but  it 
is  clad  almost  from  the  ground  in  glossy  ivy,  that 
glitters  upon  it  like  chain-mail  upon  the  vast  shoul- 
ders of  some  giant  warrior.  The  moat  beneath  is 
turned  into  a  lovely  promenade  bordered  by  quiet  vil- 
las, with  rococo  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  in  mar- 
ble on  their  gates;  where  the  wall  is  built  to  the 
verge  of  the  high  ground  on  which  the  city  stands, 
there  is  a  swift  descent  to  the  wide  valley  of  the 
Brenta  waving  in  corn  and  vines  and  tobacco. 

We  went  up  the  Brenta  one  day  as  far  as  Oliero, 
to  visit  the  famous  cavern  already  mentioned,  out  of 
which,  from  the  secret  heart  of  the  hill,  gushes  one 
of  the  foamy  affluents  of  the  river.  It  is  reached  by 
passing  through  a  paper-mill,  fed  by  the  stream,  and 
then  through  a  sort  of  ante-grot,  whence  stepping- 
stones  are  laid  in  the  brawling  current  through  a  suc- 
cession of  natural  compartments  with  dome-like  roofs. 
From  the  hill  overhead  hang  stalactites  of  all  gro- 
tesque and  fairy  shapes,  and  the  rock  underfoot  is 
embroidered  with  fantastic  designs  wrought  by  the 
water  in  the  silence  and  darkness  of  the  endless  night. 
At  a  considerable  distance  from  the  mouth  of  the  cav- 
ern is  a  wide  lake,  with  a  boat  upon  it,  and  voyaging 
to  the  centre  of  the  pool  your  attention  is  drawn  to 
the  dome  above  you,  which  contracts  into  a  shaft 
rising  upward  to  a  height  as  yet  unmeasured  and 
even  unpierced  by  light.  From  somewhere  in  its 


BASSANO. 


277 


mysterious  ascent,  an  auroral  boy,  with  a  tallow  can- 
dle, produces  a  so-called  effect  of  sunrise,  and  sheds  a 
sad,  disheartening  radiance  on  the  lake  and  the  cav- 
ern sides,  which  is  to  sunlight  about  as  the  blind 
creatures  of  subterranean  waters  are  to  those  of  waves 
that  laugh  and  dance  above  ground.  But  all  caverns 
are  much  alike  in  their  depressing  and  gloomy  influ- 
ences, and  since  there  is  so  great  opportunity  to  be 
wretched  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  why  do  people 
visit  them  ?  I  do  not  know  that  this  is  more  dispirit- 
ing or  its  stream  more  Stygian  than  another. 

The  wicked  memory  of  the  Ecelini  survives 
everywhere  in  this  part  of  Italy,  and  near  the  en- 
trance of  the  Oliero  grotto  is  a  hollow  in  the  hill 
something  like  the  apsis  of  a  church,  which  is  popu- 
larly believed  to  have  been  the  hiding-place  of  Ce- 
cilia da  Baone,  one  of  the  many  unhappy  wives  of 
one  of  the  many  miserable  members  of  the  Ecelino 
family.  It  is  not  quite  clear  when  Cecilia  should 
have  employed  this  as  a  place  of  refuge,  and  it  is 
certain  that  she  was  not  the  wife  of  Ecelino  da  Ro- 
mano, as  the  neighbors  believe  at  Oliero,  but  of  Ece- 
lino il  Monaco,  his  father  ;  yet  since  her  name  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  grot,  let  us  have  her  story,  which  is 
curiously  illustrative  of  the  life  of  the  best  society 
in  Italy  during  the  thirteenth  century.  She  was  the 
only  daughter  of  the  rich  and  potent  lord,  Manfredo, 
Count  of  Baone  and  Abano,  who  died  leaving  his 
heiress  to  the  guardianship  of  Spinabello  da  Xendrico. 
When  his  ward  reached  womanhood,  Spinabello  cast 
about  him  to  find  a  suitable  husband  for  her,  and  it 


278  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

appeared  to  him  that  a  match  with  the  son  of  Tiso  du 
Camposampiero  promised  the  greatest  advantages. 
Tiso,  to  whom  he  proposed  the  affair,  was  delighted, 
but  desiring  first  to  take  counsel  with  his  friends  upon 
so  important  a  matter,  he  confided  it  for  advice  to  his 
.brother-in-law  and  closest  intimate,  Ecelino  Balbo. 
It  had  just  happened  that  Balbo's  son,  Ecelino  il 
Monaco,  was  at  that  moment  disengaged,  having  been 
recently  divorced  from  his  first  wife,  the  lovely  but 
light  Speronella ;  and  Balbo  falsely  went  to  the  greedy 
guardian  of  Cecilia,  and  offering  him  better  terms 
than  he  could  hope  for  from  Tiso,  secured  Cecilia 
for  his  son.  At  this  treachery  the  Camposampieri 
were  furious ;  but  they  dissembled  their  anger  till 
the  moment  of  revenge  arrived,  when  Cecilia's  re- 
jected suitor  encountering  her  upon  a  journey  be- 
yond the  protection  of  her  husband,  violently  dis- 
honored his  successful  rival.  The  unhappy  lady 
returning  to  Ecelino  at  Bassano,  recounted  her 
wrong,  and  was  with  a  horrible  injustice  repudiated 
and  sent  home,  while  her  husband  arranged  schemes 
of  vengeance  in  due  time  consummated.  Cecilia 
next  married  a  Venetian  noble,  and  being  in  due 
time  divorced,  married  yet  again,  and  died  the 
mother  of  a  large  family  of  children. 

This  is  a  very  old  scandal,  yet  I  think  there  was 
an  habitue  of  the  caffd  in  Bassano  who  could  have 
given  some  of  its  particulars  from  personal  recollec- 
tion. He  was  an  old  and  smoothly  shaven  gentle- 
man, in  a  scrupulously  white  waistcoat,  whom  we 
saw  every  evening  in  a  corner  of  the  caffe  playing 


BASSANO.  279 

solitaire.  He  talked  with  no  one,  saluted  no  one. 
He  drank  his  glasses  of  water  with  anisette,  and 
silently  played  solitaire.  There  is  no  good  reason  to 
doubt  that  he  had  been  doing  the  same  thing  every 
evening  for  six  hundred  years. 


V. 

POSSAGNO,  CANOVA'S  BIRTHPLACE. 

IT  did  not  take  a  long  time  to  exhaust  the  interest 
of  Bassano,  but  we  were  sorry  to  leave  the  place 
because  of  the  excellence  of  the  inn  at  which  we 
tarried.  It  was  called  "II  Mondo,"  and  it  had 
every  thing  in  it  that  heart  could  wish.  Our  rooms 
were  miracles  of  neatness  and  comfort ;  they  had  the 
freshness,  not  the  rawness,  of  recent  repair,  and  they 
opened  into  the  dining-hall,  where  we  were  served 
with  indescribable  salads  and  risotti.  During  our 
sojourn  we  simply  enjoyed  the  house ;  when  we  were 
come  away  we  wondered  that  so  much  perfection  of 
hotel  could  exist  in  so  small  a  town  as  Bassano.  It 
is  one  of  the  pleasures  of  by-way  travel  in  Italy,  that 
you  are  everywhere  introduced  in  character,  that 
you  become  fictitious  and  play  a  part  as  in  a  novel. 
To  this  inn  of  The  World,  our  driver  had  brought  us 
with  a  clamor  and  rattle  proportioned  to  the  fee  re- 
ceived from  us,  and  when,  in  response  to  his  haughty 
summons,  the  cameriere,  who  had  been  gossiping 
with  the  cook,  threw  open  the  kitchen  door,  and 
stood  out  to  welcome  us  in  a  broad  square  of  forth- 
streaming  rud(Jy  light,  amid  the  lovely  odors  of  broil- 
ing and  roasting,  our  driver  saluted  him  with,  "  Re- 


POSSAGNO,  CANOVA'S  BIRTHPLACE.          281 

ceive  these  gentle  folks,  and  treat  them  to  your  very 
best.  They  are  worthy  of  any  thing."  This  at  once 
put  us  back  several  centuries,  and  we  never  ceased 
to  be  lords  and  ladies  of  the  period  of  Don  Quixote 
as  long  as  we  rested  in  that  inn. 

It  was  a  bright  and  breezy  Sunday  when  we  left 
"  II  Mondo,"  and  gayly  journeyed  toward  Treviso, 
intending  to  visit  Possagno,  the  birthplace  of  Canova, 
on  our  way.  The  road  to  the  latter  place  passes 
through  a  beautiful  country,  that  gently  undulates 
on  either  hand  till  in  the  distance  it  rises  into  pleasant 
hills  and  green  mountain  heights.  Possagno  itself 
lies  upon  the  brink  of  a  declivity,  down  the  side  of 
which  drops  terrace  after  terrace,  all  planted  with 
vines  and  figs  and  peaches,  to  a  watercourse  below. 
The  ground  on  which  the  village  is  built,  with  its 
quaint  and  antiquated  stone  cottages,  slopes  gently 
northward,  and  on  a  little  rise  upon  the  left  hand 
of  us  coming  from  Bassano,  we  saw  that  stately  edi- 
fice with  which  Canova  has  honored  his  humble 
birthplace.  It  is  a  copy  of  the  Pantheon,  and  it 
cannot  help  being  beautiful  and  imposing,  but  it 
would  be  utterly  out  of  place  in  any  other  than  an 
Italian  village.  Here,  however,  it  consorted  well 
enough  with  the  lingering  qualities  of  the  old  pagan 
civilization  still  perceptible  in  Italy.  A  sense  of 
that  past  was  so  strong  with  us  as  we  ascended 
the  broad  stairway  leading  up  the  slope  from  the 
village  to  the  level  on  which  the  temple  stands  at 
the  foot  of  a  mountain,  that  we  might  well  have 
believed  we  approached  an  altar  devoted  to  the  elder 


282  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

worship :  through  the  open  doorway  and  between 
the  columns  of  the  portico  we  could  see  the  priests 
moving  to  and  fro,  and  the  voice  of  their  chant- 
ing came  out  to  us  like  the  sound  of  hymns  to  some 
of  the  deities  long  disowned;  and  I  remembered 

how  Padre  L had  said  to  me  in  Venice,  "  Our 

blessed  saints  are  only  the  old  gods  baptized  and 
christened  anew."  Within  as  without,  the  temple 
resembled  the  Pantheon,  but  it  had  little  to  show  us. 
The  niches  designed  by  Canova  for  statues  of  the 
saints  are  empty  yet ;  but  there  are  busts  by  his  own 
hand  of  himself  and  his  brother,  the  Bishop  Canova. 
Among  the  people  was  the  sculptor's  niece,  whom 
our  guide  pointed  out  to  us,  and  who  was  evidently 
used  to  being  looked  at.  She  seemed  not  to  dislike 
it,  and  stared  back  at  us  amiably  enough,  being 
a  good-natured,  plump,  comely  dark-faced  lady  of 
perhaps  fifty  years. 

Possagno  is  nothing  if  not  Canova,  and  our  guide, 
a  boy,  knew  all  about  him,  —  how,  more  especially, 
he  had  first  manifested  his  wonderful  genius  by 
modeling  a  group  of  sheep  out  of  the  dust  of  the 
highway,  and  how  an  Inglese  happening  along  in  his 
carriage,  saw  the  boy's  work  and  gave  him  a  plate- 
ful of  gold  napoleons.  I  dare  say  this  is  as  near  the 
truth  as  most  facts.  And  is  it  not  better  for  the  his- 
toric Canova  to  have  begun  in  this  way  than  to  have 
poorly  picked  up  the  rudiments  of  his  art  in  the 
workshop  of  his  father,  a  maker  of  altar-pieces  and 
the  like  for  country  churches  ?  The  Canova  family 
has  intermarried  with  the  Venetian  nobility,  and  will 


283 

not  credit  those  stories  of  Canova's  beginnings  which 
his  townsmen  so  fondly  cherish.  I  believe  they  would 
even  distrust  the  butter-lion  with  which  the  boy- 
sculptor  is  said  to  have  adorned  the  table  of  the  noble 
Falier,  and  first  won  his  notice. 

Besides  the  temple  at  Possagno,  there  is  a  very 
pretty  gallery  containing  casts  of  all  Canova's  works. 
It  is  an  interesting  place,  where  Psyches  and  Cupids 
flutter,  where  Venuses  present  themselves  in  every 
variety  of  attitude,  where  Sorrows  sit  upon  hard, 
straight-backed  classic  chairs,  and  mourn  in  the 
society  of  faithful  Storks  ;  where  the  Bereft  of  this 
century  surround  death-beds  in  Greek  costume  appro- 
priate to  the  scene  ;  where  Muses  and  Graces  sweetly 
pose  themselves  and  insipidly  srnile,  and  where  the 
Dancers  and  Passions,  though  nakeder,  are  no  wick- 
eder than  the  Saints  and  Virtues.  In  all,  there  are 
a  hundred  and  ninety-five  pieces  in  the  gallery,  and 
among  the  rest  the  statue  named  George  Washing- 
ton, which  was  sent  to  America  in  1820,  and  after- 
wards destroyed  by  fire  in  the  Capitol.  The  figure 
is  in  a  sitting  posture  ;  naturally,  it  is  in  the  dress  of 
a  Roman  general ;  and  if  it  does  not  look  much  like 
George  Washington,  it  does  resemble  Julius  Caesar. 

The  custodian  of  the  gallery  had  been  Canova's 
body-servant,  and  he  loved  to  talk  of  his  master. 
He  had  so  far  imbibed  the  family  spirit  that  he  did 
not  like  to  allow  that  Canova  had  ever  been  other 
than  rich  and  grand,  and  he  begged  us  not  to  believe 
the  idle  stories  of  his  first  essays  in  art.  He  was 
delighted  with  our  interest  in  the  imperial  Washing- 


284  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

ton,  and  our  pleasure  in  the  whole  gallery,  which  we 
viewed  with  the  homage  due  to  the  man  who  had 
rescued  the  world  from  Swaggering  in  sculpture. 
When  we  were  satisfied,  he  invited  us,  with  his 
mistress's  permission,  into  the  house  of  the  Canovas 
adjoining  the  gallery  ;  and  there  we  saw  many  paint- 
ings by  the  sculptor,  —  pausing  longest  in  a  lovely 
little  room  decorated  after  the  Pompeian  manner  with 
scherzi  in  miniature  panels  representing  the  jocose 
classic  usualities :  Cupids  escaping  from  cages,  and 
being  sold  from  them,  and  playing  many  pranks  and 
games  with  Nymphs  and  Graces. 

Then  Canova  was  done,  and  Possagno  was  fin- 
ished ;  and  we  resumed  our  way  to  Treviso,  a  town 
nearly  as  much  porticoed  as  Padua,  and  having  a 
memory  and  hardly  any  other  consciousness.  The 
Duomo,  which  is  perhaps  the  ugliest  duomo  in  the 
world,  contains  an  "  Annunciation,"  by  Titian,  one 
of  his  best  paintings ;  and  in  the  Monte  di  Pietd  is 
the  grand  and  beautiful  "  Entombment,"  by  which 
Giorgione  is  perhaps  most  worthily  remembered. 
The  church  of  San  Nicolo  is  interesting  from  its 
quaint  and  pleasing  frescos  by  the  school  of  Giotto. 
At  the  railway  station  an  admirable  old  man  sells  the 
most  delicious  white  and  purple  grapes. 


VI. 
COMO. 

MY  visit  to  Lake  Como  has  become  to  me  a  dream 
of  summer,  —  a  vision  that  remains  faded  the  whole 
year  round,  till  the  blazing  heats  of  July  bring  out 
the  sympathetic  tints  in  which  it  was  vividly  painted. 
Then  I  behold  myself  again  in  burning  Milan,  amidst 
noises  and  fervors  and  bustle  that  seem  intolerable 
after  my  first  six  months  in  tranquil,  cool,  mute  Ven- 
ice. Looking  at  the  great  white  Cathedral,  with  its 
infinite  pinnacles  piercing  the  cloudless  blue,  and 
gathering  the  fierce  sun  upon  it,  I  half  expect  to  see 
the  whole  mass  calcined  by  the  heat,  and  crumbling, 
statue  by  statue,  finial  by  finial,  arch  by  arch,  into  a 
vast  heap  of  lime  on  the  Piazza,  with  a  few  charred 
English  tourists  blackening  here  and  there  upon  the 
ruin,  and  contributing  a  smell  of  burnt  leather  and 
Scotch  tweed  to  the  horror  of  the  scene.  All  round 
Milan  smokes  the  great  Lombard  plain,  and  to  the 
north  rises  Monte  Rosa,  her  dark  head  coifed  with 
tantalizing  snows  as  with  a  peasant's  white  linen  ker- 
chief. And  I  am  walking  out  upon  that  fuming 
plain  as  far  as  to  the  Arco  della  Pace,  on  which  the 
bronze  horses  may  melt  any  minute ;  or  I  am  swel- 
tering through  the  city's  noonday  streets,  in  search 


286  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

of  Sant'  Ambrogio,  or  the  Cenacolo  of  Da  Vinci,  or 
what  know  I  ?  Coming  back  to  our  hotel,  "  Alia 
Bella  Venezia,"  and  greeted  on  entering  by  the  im- 
mense fresco  which  covers  one  whole  side  of  the 
court,  it  appeared  to  my  friend  and  me  no  wonder 
that  Garibaldi  should  look  so  longingly  from  the 
prow  of  a  gondola  toward  the  airy  towers  and  bal- 
loon-like domes  that  swim  above  the  unattainable  la- 
goons of  Venice,  where  the  Austrian  then  lorded  it 
in  coolness  and  quietness,  while  hot,  red-shirted  Italy 
was  shut  out  upon  the  dusty  plains  and  stony  hills. 
Our  desire  for  water  became  insufferable ;  we  paid 
our  modest  bills,  and  at  six  o'clock  we  took  the  train 
for  Como,  where  we  arrived  about  the  hour  when 
Don  Abbondio,  walking  down  the  lonely  path  with 
his  book  of  devotions  in  his  hand,  gave  himself  to 
the  Devil  on  meeting  the  bravos  of  Don  Rodrigo.  I 
counsel  the  reader  to  turn  to  I  Promessi  Sposi,  if 
he  would  know  how  all  the  lovely  Como  country 
looks  at  that  hour.  For  me,  the  ride  through  the 
evening  landscape,  and  the  faint  sentiment  of  pen- 
siveness  provoked  by  the  smell  of  the  ripening  maize, 
which  exhales  the  same  sweetness  on  the  way  to 
Como  that  it  does  on  any  Ohio  bottom-land,  have 
given  me  an  appetite,  and  I  am  to  dine  before  woo- 
ing the  descriptive  Muse. 

After  dinner,  we  find  at  the  door  of  the  hotel  an 
English  architect  whom  we  know,  and  we  take  a 
boat  together  for  a  moonlight  row  upon  the  lake,  and 
voyage  -far  up  the  placid  water  through  air  that 
bathes  our  heated  senses  like  dew.  How  far  we  have 


COMO.  287 

left  Milan  behind !  On  the  lake  lies  the  moon,  but 
the  hills  are  held  by  mysterious  shadows,  which  for 
the  time  are  as  substantial  to  us  as  the  hills  them- 
selves. Hints  of  habitation  appear  in  the  twinkling 
lights  along  the  water's  edge,  and  we  suspect  an  ala- 
baster lamp  in  every  casement,  and  in  every  invisible 
house  a  villa  such  as  Claude  Melnotte  described  to 
Pauline,  — and  some  one  mouths  that  well-worn  fus- 
tian. The  rags  of  sentimentality  flutter  from  every 
crag  and  olive-tree  and  orange-tree  in  all  Italy  —  like 
the  wilted  paper  collars  which  vulgar  tourists  leave 
by  our  own  mountains  and  streams,  to  commemorate 
their  enjoyment  of  the  landscape. 

The  town  of  Como  lies,  a  swarm  of  lights,  behind 
us  ;  the  hills  and  shadows  gloom  around ;  the  lake  is 
a  sheet  of  tremulous  silver.  There  is  no  telling  how 
we  get  back  to  our  hotel,  or  with  what  satisfied 
hearts  we  fall  asleep  in  our  room  there.  The  steamer 
starts  for  the  head  of  the  lake  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  we  go  on  board  at  that  hour. 

There  is  some  pretense  of  shelter  in  the  awning 
stretched  over  the  after  part  of  the  boat ;  but  we  do 
not  feel  the  need  of  it  in  the  fresh  morning  air,  and 
we  get  as  near  the  bow  as  possible,  that  we  may  be 
the  very  first  to  enjoy  the  famous  beauty  of  the 
scenes  opening  before  us.  A  few  sails  dot  the  water, 
and  everywhere  there  are  small,  canopied  row-boats, 
such  as  we  went  pleasuring  in  last  night.  We  reach 
a  bend  in  the  lake,  and  all  the  roofs  and  towers  of 
the  city  of  Como  pass  from  view,  as  if  they  had 
been  so  much  architecture  painted  on  a  scene  and 


288  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

shifted  out  of  sight  at  a  theatre.  But  other  roofs  and 
towers  constantly  succeed  them,  not  less  lovely  and 
picturesque  than  they,  with  every  curve  of  the  many- 
curving  lake.  We  advance  over  charming  expanses 
of  water  lying  between  lofty  hills  ;  and  as  the  lake  is 
narrow,  the  voyage  is  like  that  of  a  winding  river, 
—  like  that  of  the  Ohio,  but  for  the  primeval  wild- 
ness  of  the  acclivities  that  guard  our  Western  stream, 
and  the  tawniness  of  its  current.  Wherever  the  hills 
do  not  descend  sheer  into  Como,  a  pretty  town  nest- 
les on  the  brink,  or,  if  not  a  town,  then  a  villa,  or 
else  a  cottage,  if  there  is  room  for  nothing  more. 
Many  little  towns  climb  the  heights  half-way,  and 
where  the  hills  are  green  and  cultivated  in  vines  or 
olives,  peasants'  houses  scale  them  to  the  crest. 
They  grow  loftier  and  loftier  as  we  leave  our  start- 
ing-place farther  behind,  and  as  we  draw  near  Col- 
ico  they  wear  light  wreaths  of  cloud  and  snow.  So 
cool  a  breeze  has  drawn  down  between  them  all  the 
way  that  we  fancy  it  to  have  come  from  them  till  we 
stop  at  Colico,  and  find  that,  but  for  the  efforts  of 
our  honest  engine,  sweating  and  toiling  in  the  dark 
below,  we  should  have  had  no  current  of  air.  A 
burning  calm  is  in  the  atmosphere,  and  on  the  broad, 
flat  valley,  —  out  of  which  a  marshy  stream  oozes 
into  the  lake,  —  and  on  the  snow-crowned  hills  upon 
the  left,  and  on  the  dirty  village  of  Colico  upon  the 
right,  and  on  the  indolent  beggars  waiting  to  wel- 
come us,  and  sunning  their  goitres  at  the  landing. 

The  name  Colico,  indeed,  might  be  literally  taken 
in   English  as   descriptive   of  the   local   insalubrity. 


COMO.  289 

The  place  was  once  large,  but  it  has  fallen  away 
much  from  sickness,  and  we  found  a  bill  posted  in  its 
public  places  inviting  emigrants  to  America  on  the 
part  of  a  German  steamship  company.  It  was  the 
only  advertisement  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw  in  Italy, 
and  I  judged  that  the  people  must  be  notoriously 
discontented  there  to  make  it  worth  the  while  of  a 
steamship  company  to  tempt  from  home  any  of  the 
home-keeping  Italian  race.  And  yet  Colico,  though 
undeniably  hot,  and  openly  dirty,  and  tacitly  un- 
healthy, had  merits,  though  the  dinner  we  got  there 
was  not  among  its  virtues.  It  had  an  accessible 
country  about  it ;  that  is,  its  woods  and  fields  were 
not  impenetrably  walled  in  from  the  vagabond  foot ; 
and  after  we  had  dined  we  went  and  lay  down  under 
some  greenly  waving  trees  beside  a  field  of  corn,  and 
heard  the  plumed  and  panoplied  maize  talking  to 
itself  of  its  kindred  in  America.  It  always  has  a 
welcome  for  tourists  of  our  nation  wherever  it  finds 
us  in  Italy ;  and  sometimes  its  sympathy,  expressed 
in  a  rustling  and  clashing  of  its  long  green  blades,  or 
in  its  strong  sweet  perfume,  has,  as  already  hinted, 
made  me  homesick,  though  I  have  been  uniformly 
unaffected  by  potato-patches  and  tobacco-fields.  If 
only  the  maize  could  impart  to  the  Italian  cooks  the 
beautiful  mystery  of  roasting-ears  !  Ah  !  then  indeed 
it  might  claim  a  full  and  perfect  fraternization  from 
its  compatriots  abroad. 

From  where  we  lay  beside  the  corn-field,  we  could 
see,  through  the  twinkling  leaves  and  the  twinkling 
atmosphere,  the  great  hills  across   the  lake,  taking 
19 


290  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

their  afternoon  naps,  with  their  clouds  drawn  like 
handkerchiefs  over  their  heads.  It  was  very  hot, 
and  the  red  and  purple  ooze  of  the  unwholesome 
river  below  "burnt  like  a  witch's  oils."  It  was  in- 
deed but  a  fevered  joy  we  snatched  from  Nature 
there  ;  and  I  am  afraid  that  we  got  nothing  more 
comfortable  from  sentiment,  when,  rising,  we  wan- 
dered off  through  the  unguarded  fields  toward  a 
ruined  tower  on  a  hill.  It  must  have  been  a  relic  of 
feudal  times,  and  I  could  easily  believe  it  had  been 
the  hold  of  one  of  those  wicked  lords  who  used 
to  rule  in  the  terror  of  the  people  beside  peaceful 
and  happy  Como.  But  the  life,  good  or  bad,  was 
utterly  gone  out  of  it  now,  and  what  was  left  of 
the  tower  was  a  burden  to  the  sense.  A  few 
scrawny  blackberries  and  other  brambles  grew  out 
of  its  fallen  stones ;  harsh,  dust-dry  mosses  painted 
its  weather-worn  walls  with  their  blanched  gray  and 
yellow.  From  its  foot,  looking  out  over  the  valley, 
we  saw  the  road  to  the  Splugen  Pass  lying  white-hot 
in  the  valley  ;  and  while  we  looked,  the  diligence  ap- 
peared, and  dashed  through  the  dust  that  rose  like  a 
flame  before.  After  that  it  was  a  relief  to  stroll  in 
dirty  by-ways,  past  cottages  of  saffron  peasants,  and  , 
poor  stony  fields  that  begrudged  them  a  scanty  veg- 
etation, back  to  the  steamer  blistering  in  the  sun. 

Now  indeed  we  were  glad  of  the  awning,  under 
which  a  silent  crowd  of  people  with  sunburnt  faces 
waited  for  the  departure  of  the  boat.  The  breeze 
rose  again  as  the  engine  resumed  its  unappreciated 
labors,  and,  with  our  head  toward  Como,  we  pushed 


COMO.  291 

out  into  the  lake.  The  company  on  board  was  such 
as  might  be  expected.  There  was  a  German  land- 
scape-painter, with  three  heart's-friends  beside  him  ; 
there  were  some  German  ladies;  there  were  the  un- 
failing Americans  and  the  unfailing  Englishman ; 
there  were  some  French  people  ;  there  were  Italians 
from  the  meridional  provinces,  dark,  thin,  and  enthu- 
siastic, with  fat  silent  wives,  and  a  rhythmical  speech  ; 
there  were  Milanese  with  their  families,  out  for  a 
holiday,  —  round-bodied  men,  with  blunt  square  feat- 
ures, and  hair  and  vowels  clipped  surprisingly  short , 
there  was  a  young  girl  whose  face  was  of  the  exact 
type  affected  in  rococo  sculpture,  and  at  whom  one 
gazed  without  being  able  to  decide  whether  she  was 
a  nymph  descended  from  a  villa  gate,  or  a  saint  come 
from  under  a  broken  arch  in  a  Renaissance  church. 
At  one  of  the  little  towns  two  young  Englishmen  in 
knickerbockers  came  on  board,  who  were  devoured 
by  the  eyes  of  their  fellow-passengers,  and  between 
whom  and  our  kindly  architect  there  was  instantly 
ratified  the  tacit  treaty  of  non-intercourse  which 
traveling  Englishmen  observe. 

Nothing  further  interested  us  on  the  way  to  Como, 
except  the  gathering  coolness  of  the  evening  air ;  the 
shadows  creeping  higher  and  higher  on  the  hills ;  the 
songs  of  the  girls  winding  yellow  silk  on  the  reels 
that  hummed  through  the  open  windows  of  the  fac- 
tories on  the  shore  ;  and  the  appearance  of  a  flag 
that  floated  from  a  shallop  before  the  landing  of  a 
stately  villa.  The  Italians  did  not  know  this  banner, 
and  the  Germans  loudly  debated  its  nationality. 


292  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

The  Englishmen  grinned,  and  the  Americans 
blushed  in  silence.  Of  all  my  memories  of  that  hot 
day  on  Lake  Como,  this  is  burnt  the  deepest ;  for  the 
flag  was  that  insolent  banner  which  in  1862  pro- 
claimed us  a  broken  people,  and  persuaded  willing 
Europe  of  our  ruin.  It  has  gone  down  long  ago 
from  ship  and  fort  and  regiment,  as  well  as  from  the 
shallop  on  the  fair  Italian  lake.  Still,  I  say,  it  made 
Como  too  hot  for  us  that  afternoon,  and  even  breath- 
less Milan  was  afterwards  a  pleasant  contrast. 


STOPPING    AT    VICENZA,    VERONA,    AND 
PARMA. 


i. 


IT  was  after  sunset  when  we  arrived  in  the  birth- 
place of  Palladio,  which  we  found  a  fair  city  in  the 
lap  of  caressing  hills.  There  are  pretty  villas  upon 
these  slopes,  and  an  abundance  of  shaded  walks  and 
drives  about  the  houses  which  were  pointed  out  to 
us,  by  the  boy  who  carried  our  light  luggage  from 
the  railway  station,  as  the  property  of  rich  citizens 
"  but  little  less  than  lords  "  in  quality.  A  lovely 
grove  lay  between  the  station  and  the  city,  and  our 
guide  not  only  took  us  voluntarily  by  the  longest 
route  through  this,  but,  after  reaching  the  streets,  led 
us  by  labyrinthine  ways  to  the  hotel,  in  order,  he  af- 
terwards confessed,  to  show  us  the  city.  He  was  a 
poet,  though  in  that  lowly  walk  of  life,  and  he  had 
done  well.  No  other  moment  of  our  stay  would 
have  served  us  so  well  for  a  first  general  impression 
of  Vicenza  as  that  twilight  hour.  In  its  uncertain 
glimmer  we  seemed  to  get  quite  back  to  the  dawn  of 
feudal  civilization,  when  Theodoric  founded  the  great 
Basilica  of  the  city ;  and  as  we  stood  before  the  fa- 
mous Clock  Tower,  which  rises  light  and  straight  as 
a  mast  eighty-two  metres  into  the  air  from  a  base  of 


294  ITALIAN    JOURNEYS. 

seven  metres,  the  wavering  obscurity  enhanced  the 
effect  by  half  concealing  the  tower's  crest,  and  let- 
ting it  soar  endlessly  upward  in  the  fancy.  The  Ba- 
silica is  greatly  restored  by  Palladio,  arid  the  cold 
hand  of  that  friend  of  virtuous  poverty  in  architect- 
ure lies  heavy  upon  his  native  city  in  many  places. 
Yet  there  is  still  a  great  deal  of  Lombardic  architect- 
ure in  Vicenza  ;  and  we  walked  through  one  street 
of  palaces  in  which  Venetian  Gothic  prevailed,  so 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  Grand  Canal  had  but  just 
shrunk  away  from  their  bases.  When  we  threw 
open  our  window  at  the  hotel,  we  found  that  it  over- 
looked one  of  the  city  gates,  from  which  rose  a  Ghi- 
belline  tower  with  a  great  bulging  cornice,  full  of  the 
beauty  and  memory  of  times  long  before  Palladio. 

They  were  rather  troublous  times,  and  not  to  be 
recalled  here  in  all  their  circumstance ;  but  I  think  it 
due  to  Vicenza,  which  is  now  little  spoken  of,  even 
in  Italy,  and  is  scarcely  known  in  America,  where 
her  straw-braid  is  bought  for  that  of  Leghorn,  to 
remind  the  reader  that  the  city  was  for  a  long  time 
a  republic  of  very  independent  and  warlike  stomach. 
Before  she  arrived  at  that  state,  however,  she  had 
undergone  a  great  variety  of  fortunes.  The  Gauls 
founded  the  city  (as  I  learn  from  "  The  Chronicles 
of  Vicenza,"  by  Battista  Pagliarino,  published  at  Vi- 
cenza in  1563)  when  Gideon  was  Judge  in  Israel, 
and  were  driven  out  by  the  Romans  some  centuries 
later.  As  a  matter  of  course,  Vicenza  was  sacked 
by  Attila  and  conquered  by  Alboin  ;  after  which 
she  was  ruled  by  some  lords  of  her  own,  until  she 


VICENZA,    VERONA,    AND   PARMA.  295 

was  made  an  imperial  city  by  Henry  I.  Then  she 
had  a  government  more  or  less  republican  in  form 
till  Frederick  Barbarossa  burnt  her,  and  "  wrapped 
her  in  ashes,"  and  gave  her  to  his  vicar  Ecelino  da 
Romano,  who  "  held  her  in  cruel  tyranny  "  from 
1236  to  1259.  The  Paduans  next  ruled  her  forty 
years,  and  the  Veronese  seventy-seven,  and  the  Mi- 
lanese seventeen  years ;  then  she  reposed  in  the 
arms  of  the  Venetian  Republic  till  these  fell  weak 
and  helpless  from  all  the  Venetian  possessions  at  the 
threat  of  Napoleon.  Vicenza  belonged  again  to 
Venice  during  the  brief  Republic  of  1848,  but  the 
most  memorable  battle  of  that  heroic  but  unhappy 
epoch  gave  her  back  to  Austria.  Now  at  last,  and 
for  the  first  time,  she  is  Italian. 
Vicenza  is 

"  Of  kindred  that  have  greatly  expiated 
And  greatly  wept," 

and  but  that  I  so  long  fought  against  Ecelino  da  Ro- 
mano, and  the  imperial  interest  in  Italy,  I  could  read- 
ily forgive  her  all  her  past  errors.  To  us  of  the  Lom- 
bard League,  it  was  grievous  that  she  should  remain 
so  doggishly  faithful  to  her  tyrant ;  though  it  is  to  be 
granted  that  perhaps  fear  had  as  much  to  do  with 
her  devotion  as  favor.  The  defense  of  1848  was 
greatly  to  her  honor,  and  she  took  an  active  part  in 
that  demonstration  against  the  Austrians  which  en- 
dured from  1859  till  1866. 

Of  the  demonstration  we  travelers  saw  an  amus- 
ing phase  at  the  opera  which  we  attended  the  evening 
of  our  arrival  in  Vicenza.  "  Nabucodonosor  "  was  the 


296  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

piece  to  be  given  in  the  new  open-air  theatre  outside 
the  city  walls,  whither  we  walked  under  the  starlight. 
It  was  a  pretty  structure  of  fresh  white  stucco,  oval 
in  form,  with  some  graceful  architectural  pretensions 
without,  and  within  very  charmingly  galleried  ;  while 
overhead  it  was  roofed  with  a  blue  dome  set  with 
such  starry  mosaic  as  never  covered  temple  or  thea- 
tre since  they  used  to  leave  their  houses  of  play  and 
worship  open  to  the  Attic  skies.  The  old  Hebrew 
story  had,  on  this  stage  brought  so  near  to  Nature, 
effects  seldom  known  to  opera,  and  the  scene  evoked 
from  far-off  days  the  awful  interest  of  the  Bible  his- 
tories,—  the  vague,  unfigured  oriental  splendor  — 
the  desert  —  the  captive  people  by  the  waters  of  the 
river  of  Babylon  —  the  shadow  and  mystery  of  the 
prophecies.  When  the  Hebrews,  chained  and  toil- 
ing on  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates,  lifted  their  voices 
in  lamentation,  the  sublime  music  so  transfigured  the 
commonplaceness  of  the  words,  that  they  meant  all 
deep  and  unutterable  affliction,  and  for  a  while  swept 
away  whatever  was  false  and  tawdry  in  the  show, 
and  thrilled  our  hearts  with  a  rapture  rarely  felt. 
Yet,  as  but  a  moment  before  we  had  laughed  to  see 
Nebuchadnezzar's  crown  shot  off  his  head  by  a  squib 
visibly  directed  from  the  side  scenes,  —  at  the  point 
when,  according  to  the  libretto,  "  the  thunder  roars, 
and  a  bolt  descends  upon  the  head  of  the  king,"  —  so 
but  a  moment  after  some  new  absurdity  marred  the 
illusion,  and  we  began  to  look  about  the  theatre  at  the 
audience.  We  then  beheld  that  act  of  dimostrazione 
which  I  have  mentioned.  In  one  of  the  few  boxes, 


VICENZA,    VERONA,   AND   PARMA.  297 

sat  a  young  and  very  beautiful  woman  in  a  dress  of 
white,  with  a  fan  which  she  kept  in  constant  move- 
ment. It  was  red  on  one  side,  and  green  on  the 
other,  and  gave,  with  the  white  dress,  the  forbidden 
Italian  colors,  while,  looked  at  alone,  it  was  innocent 
of  offense.  I  do  not  think  a  soul  in  the  theatre  was 
ignorant  of  the  demonstration.  A  satisfied  conscious- 
ness was  reflected  from  the  faces  of  the  Italians,  and 
I  saw  two  Austrian  officers  exchange  looks  of  good- 
natured  intelligence,  after  a  glance  at  the  fair  patriot. 
I  wonder  what  those  poor  people  do,  now  they  are 
free,  and  deprived  of  the  sweet,  perilous  luxury  of 
defying  their  tyrants  by  constant  acts  of  subtle  dis- 
dain ?  Life  in  Venetia  must  be  very  dull :  no  more 
explosion  of  pasteboard  petards  ;  no  more  treason  in 
bouquets ;  no  more  stealthy  inscriptions  on  the  walls 
—  it  must  be  insufferably  dull.  JUbbene,  pazienza ! 
Perhaps  Victor  Emanuel  may  betray  them  yet. 

A  spirit  of  lawless  effrontery,  indeed,  seemed  to 
pervade  the  whole  audience  in  the  theatre  that  night 
at  Vicenza,  and  to  extend  to  the  ministers  of  the  law 
themselves.  There  were  large  placards  everywhere 
posted,  notifying  the  people  that  it  was  forbidden  to 
smoke  in  the  theatre,  and  that  smokers  were  liable 
to  expulsion ;  but  except  for  ourselves,  and  the  fair 
patriot  in  the  box,  I  think  every  body  there  was 
smoking,  and  the  policemen  set  the  example  of  an- 
archy by  smoking  the  longest  and  worst  cigars  of  all. 
I  am  sure  that  the  captive  Hebrews  all  held  lighted 
cigarettes  behind  their  backs,  and  that  Nebuchadnez- 
zar, condemned  to  the  grass  of  the  field,  conscien- 


298  ITALIAN    JOUKNEYS. 

tiously  gave  himself  up  to  the  Virginia  weed  behind 
the  scenes. 

Before  I  fell  asleep  that  night,  the  moon  rose 
over  the  top  of  the  feudal  tower,  in  front  of  our 
hotel,  and  produced  some  very  pretty  effects  with 
the  battlements.  Early  in  the  morning  a  regiment 
of  Croats  marched  through  the  gate  below  the 
tower,  their  band  playing  "  The  Young  Recruit." 
These  advantages  of  situation  were  not  charged 
in  our  bill ;  but,  even  if  they  had  been,  I  should 
still  advise  my  reader  to  go,  when  in  Vicenza,  if 
he  loves  a  pleasant  landlord  and  a  good  dinner,  to 
the  Hotel  de  la  Ville,  which  he  will  find  almost 
at  his  sole  disposition  for  however  long  time  he 
may  stay.  His  meals  will  be  served  him  in  a  vast 
dining-hall,  as  bare  as  a  barn  or  a  palace,  but  for 
the  pleasant,  absurd  old  paintings  on  the  wall,  repre- 
senting, as  I  suppose,  Cleopatra  applying  the  Asp, 
Susannah  and  the  Elders,  the  Roman  Lucrezia,  and 
other  moral  and  appetizing  histories.  I  take  it  there 
is  a  quaint  side-table  or  two  lost  midway  of  the  wall, 
and  that  an  old  woodcut  picture  of  the  Most  Noble 
City  of  Venice  hangs  over  each.  I  know  that  there 
is  a  screen  at  one  end  of  the  apartment  behind  which 
the  landlord  invisibly  assumes  the  head  waiter ;  and 
I  suspect  that  at  the  moment  of  sitting  down  at 
meat,  you  hear  two  Englishmen  talking  —  as  they 
pass  along  the  neighboring  corridor  —  of  wine,  in 
dissatisfied  chest-tones.  This  hotel  is  of  course  built 
round  a  court,  in  which  there  is  a  stable  and  —  ex- 
posed to  the  weather  —  a  diligence,  and  two  or  three 


VICENZA,    VERONA,    AND    PARMA.  299 

carriages  and  a  driver,  and  an  ostler  chewing  straw, 
and  a  pump  and  a  .grape-vine.  Why  the  hotel,  there- 
fore, does  not  smell  like  a  stable,  from  garret  to  cellar, 
I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  know.  I  state  the  fact  that 
it  does  not,  and  that  every  other  hotel  in  Italy  does 
smell  of  stable  as  if  cattle  had  been  immemorially 
pastured  in  its  halls,  and  horses  housed  in  its  bed- 
chambers, —  or  as  if  its  only  guests  were  centaurs 
on  their  travels. 

From  the  Museo  Civico,  whither  we  repaired  first 
in  the  morning,  and  where  there  are  some  beautiful 
Montagnas,  and  an  assortment  of  good  and  bad  works 
by  other  masters,  we  went  to  the  Campo  Santo, 
which  is  worthy  to  be  seen,  if  only  because  of  the 
beautiful  Laschi  monument  by  Vela,  one  of  the 
greatest  modern  sculptors.  It  is  nothing  more  than 
a  very  simple  tomb,  at  the  door  of  which  stands  a 
figure  in  flowing  drapery,  with  folded  hands  and  up- 
lifted eyes  in  an  attitude  exquisitely  expressive  of 
grief.  The  figure  is  said  to  be  the  portrait  statue  of 
the  widow  of  him  within  the  tomb,  and  the  face  is 
very  beautiful.  We  asked  if  the  widow  was  still 
young,  and  the  custodian  answered  us  in  terms  that 
ought  to  endear  him  to  all  women,  if  not  to  our 
whole  mortal  race,  —  "  Oh  quite  young,  yet.  She  is 
perhaps  fifty  years  old." 

After  the  Campo  Santo  one  ought  to  go  to  that 
theatre  which  Palladio  built  for  the  representation  of 
classic  tragedy,  and  which  is  perhaps  the  perfectest 
reproduction  of  the  Greek  theatre  in  the  world.  Al- 
fieri  is  the  only  poet  of  modern  times,  whose  works 


300  ITALIAN    JOURNEYS. 

have  been  judged  worthy  of  this  stage,  and  no  drama 
has  been  given  on  it  since  1857,  when  the  "  (Edipus 
Tyrannus  "  of  Sophocles  was  played.  We  found  it 
very  silent  and  dusty,  and  were  much  sadder  as  we 
walked  through  its  gayly  frescoed,  desolate  ante- 
rooms than  we  had  been  in  the  Campo  Santo.  Here 
used  to  sit,  at  coffee  and  bassett,  the  merry  people 
who  owned  the  now  empty  seats  of  the  theatre,  — 
lord,  and  lady,  and  abbe*,  —  who  affected  to  be  en- 
tertained by  the  scenes  upon  the  stage.  Upon  my 
word,  I  should  like  to  know  what  has  become,  in 
the  other  world,  of  those  poor  pleasurers  of  the  past 
whose  memory  makes  one  so  sad  upon  the  scenes 
of  their  enjoyment  here !  I  suppose  they  have 
something  quite  as  unreal,  yonder,  to  satisfy  them 
as  they  had  on  earth,  and  that  they  still  play  at 
happiness  in  the  old  rococo  way,  though  it  is  hard 
to  conceive  of  any  fiction  outside  of  Italy  so  per- 
fect and  so  entirely  suited  to  their  unreality  as  this 
classic  theatre.  It  is  a  Greek  theatre,  for  Greek 
tragedies ;  but  it  could  never  have  been  for  popular 
amusement,  and  it  was  not  open  to  the  air,  though  it 
had  a  sky  skillfully  painted  in  the  centre  of  the  roof. 
The  proscenium  is  a  Greek  fagade,  in  three  stories, 
such  as  never  was  seen  in  Greece ;  and  the  architect- 
ure of  the  three  streets  running  back  from  the  prosce- 
nium, and  forming  the  one  unchangeable  scene  of  all 
the  dramas,  is  —  like  the  statues  in  the  niches  and 
on  the  gallery  inclosing  the  auditorium  —  Greek  in 
the  most  fashionable  Vicentine  taste.  It  must  have 
been  but  an  operatic  chorus  that  sang  in  the  semi- 


VICENZA,   VERONA,   AND   PARMA.  301 

circular  space  just  below  the  stage  and  in  front  of 
the  audience.  Admit  and  forget  these  small  blem- 
ishes and  aberrations,  however,  and  what  a  marvel- 
ous thing  Palladio's  theatre  is  !  The  sky  above  the 
stage  is  a  wonderful  trick,  and  those  three  streets 
—  one  in  the  centre  and  serving  as  entrance  for  the 
royal  persons  of  the  drama,  one  at  the  right  for  the 
nobles,  and  one  at  the  left  for  the  citizens  —  present 
unsurpassed  effects  of  illusion.  They  are  not  painted, 
but  modeled  in  stucco.  In  perspective  they  seem 
each  half  a  mile  long,  but  entering  them  you  find 
that  they  run  back  from  the  proscenium  only  some 
fifteen  feet,  the  fronts  of  the  houses  and  the  statues 
upon  them  decreasing  in  recession  with  a  well-or- 
dered abruptness.  The  semicircular  gallery  above 
the  auditorium  is  of  stone,  and  forty  statues  of  mar- 
ble crown  its  colonnade,  or  occupy  niches  between 
the  columns. 

n. 

IT  was  curious  to  pass,  with  the  impression  left  by 
this  costly  and  ingenious  toy  upon  our  minds,  at  once 
to  the  amphitheatre  in  Verona,  which,  next  to  the 
Coliseum,  has,  of  all  the  works  bequeathed  us  by  the 
ancient  Roman  world,  the  greatest  claim  upon  the 
wonder  and  imagination.  Indeed,  it  makes  even  a 
stronger  appeal  to  the  fancy.  We  know  who  built 
the  Coliseum,  but  in  its  unstoried  origin,  the  Veronese 
Arena  has  the  mystery  of  the  Pyramids.  Was  its 
founder  Augustus,  or  Vitellius,  or  Antoninus,  or 
Maximian,  or  the  Republic  of  Verona  ?  Nothing  is 


302  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

certain  but  that  it  was  conceived  and  reared  by  some 
mighty  prince  or  people,  and  that  it  yet  remains  in 
such  perfection  that  the  great  shows  of  two  thousand 
years  ago  might  take  place  in  it  to-day.  It  is  so  sug- 
gestive of  the  fierce  and  splendid  spectacles  of  Ro- 
man times  that  the  ring  left  by  a  modern  circus  on 
the  arena,  and  absurdly  dwarfed  by  the  vast  space 
of  the  oval,  had  an  impertinence  which  we  hotly  re- 
sented, looking  down  on  it  from  the  highest  grade  of 
the  interior.  It  then  lay  fifty  feet  below  us,  in  the 
middle  of  an  ellipse  five  hundred  feet  in  length  and 
four  hundred  in  breadth,  and  capable  of  holding  fifty 
thousand  spectators.  The  seats  that  the  multitudes 
pressed  of  old  are  perfect  yet ;  scarce  a  stone  has 
been  removed  from  the  interior ;  the  sedile  and  the 
prefect  might  take  their  places  again  in  the  balus- 
traded  tribunes  above  the  great  entrance  at  either 
end  of  the  arena,  and  scarcely  see  that  they  were 
changed.  Nay,  the  victims  and  the  gladiators  might 
return  to  the  cells  below  the  seats  of  the  people,  and 
not  know  they  had  left  them  for  a  day;  the  wild 
beasts  might  leap  into  the  arena  from  dens  as 
secure  and  strong  as  when  first  built.  The  ruin 
within  seems  only  to  begin  with  the  aqueduct,  which 
was  used  to  flood  the  arena  for  the  naval  shows,  but 
which  is  now  choked  with  the  dust  of  ages.  With- 
out, however,  is  plain  enough  the  doom  which  is 
written  against  all  the  work  of  human  hands,  and 
which,  unknown  of  the  builders,  is  among  the  memor- 
able things  placed  in  the  corner-stone  of  every  edi- 
fice. Of  the  outer  wall  that  rose  high  over  the  high- 


VICENZA,    VERONA,   AND    PARMA.  303 

est  seats  of  the  amphitheatre,  and  encircled  it  with 
stately  corridors,  giving  it  vaster  amplitude  and 
grace,  the  earthquake  of  six  centuries  ago  spared 
only  a  fragment  that  now  threatens  above  one  of  the 
narrow  Veronese  streets.  Blacksmiths,  wagon-mak- 
ers, and  workers  in  clangorous  metals  have  made 
shops  of  the  lower  corridors  of  the  old  arena,  and  it 
is  friends  and  neighbors  with  the  modern  life  about 
it,  as  such  things  usually  are  in  Italy.  Fortunately 
for  the  stranger,  the  Piazza  Bra  flanks  it  on  one 
hand,  and  across  this  it  has  a  magnificent  approach. 
It  is  not  less  happy  in  being  little  known  to  senti- 
ment, and  the  traveler  who  visits  it  by  moonlight, 
has  a  full  sense  of  grandeur  and  pathos,  without  any 
of  the  sheepishness  attending  homage  to  that  bat- 
tered old  coquette,  the  Coliseum,  which  so  many 
emotional  people  have  sighed  over,  kissing  and  after- 
wards telling. 

But  he  who  would  know  the  innocent  charm  of  a 
ruin  as  yet  almost  wholly  uncourted  by  travel,  must 
go  to  the  Roman  theatre  in  Verona.  It  is  not  a  fa- 
vorite of  the  hand-books  ;  and  we  were  decided  to 
see  it  chiefly  by  a  visit  to  the  Museum,  where,  besides 
an  admirable  gallery  of  paintings,  there  is  a  most  in- 
teresting collection  of  antiques  in  bronze  and  marble 
found  in  excavating  the  theatre.  The  ancient  edi- 
fice had  been  completely  buried,  and  a  quarter  of 
the  town  was  built  over  it,  as  Portici  is  built  over 
Herculaneum,  and  on  the  very  top  stood  a  Jesuit 
convent.  One  day,  some  children,  playing  in  the 
garden  of  one  of  the  shabby  houses,  suddenly  van- 


304  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

ished  from  sight.  Their  mother  ran  like  one  mad 
(I  am  telling  the  story  in  the  words  of  the  peasant 
who  related  it  to  me)  to  the  spot  where  they  had 
last  been  seen,  and  fell  herself  into  an  opening  of  the 
earth  there.  The  outcry  raised  by  these  unfortu- 
nates brought  a  number  of  men  to  their  aid,  and  in 
digging  to  get  them  out,  an  old  marble  stairway  was 
discovered.  This  was  about  twenty-five  years  ago. 
A  certain  gentleman  named  Monga  owned  the  land, 
and  he  immediately  began  to  make  excavations.  He 
was  a  rich  man,  but  considered  rather  whimsical  (if 
my  peasant  represented  the  opinion  of  his  neigh- 
bors), and  as  the  excavation  ate  a  great  deal  of 
money  (mangiava  molti  soldi),  his  sons  discontinued 
the  work  after  his  death,  and  nothing  has  been  done 
for  some  time,  now.  The  peasant  in  charge  was  not 
a  person  of  imaginative  mind,  though  he  said  the 
theatre  (supposed  to  have  been  built  in  the  time  of 
Augustus)  was  completed  two  thousand  years  before 
Christ.  He  had  a  purely  conventional  admiration  of 
the  work,  which  he  expressed  at  regular  intervals, 
by  stopping  short  in  his  course,  waving  both  hands 
over  the  ruins,  and  crying  in  a  sepulchral  voice, 
"  QuaV  opera  !  "  However,  as  he  took  us  faithfully 
into  every  part  of  it,  there  is  no  reason  to  complain 
of  him. 

We  crossed  three  or  four  streets,  and  entered  at 
several  different  gates,  in  order  to  see  the  uncovered 
parts  of  the  work,  which  could  have  been  but  a  small 
proportion  of  the  whole.  The  excavation  has  been 
carried  down  thirty  and  forty  feet  below  the  founda- 


VICENZA,    VERONA,    AND   PARMA.  305 

tions  of  the  modern  houses,  revealing  the  stone  seats 
of  the  auditorium,  the  corridors  beneath  them,  and 
the  canals  and  other  apparatus  for  naval  shows,  as 
in  the  great  Amphitheatre.  These  works  are  even 
more  stupendous  than  those  of  the  Amphitheatre, 
for  in  many  cases  they  are  not  constructed,  but 
hewn  out  of  the  living  rock,  so  that  in  this  light 
the  theatre  is  a  gigantic  sculpture.  Below  all  are 
cut  channels  to  collect  and  carry  off  the  water  of 
the  springs  in  which  the  rock  abounds.  The  depth 
of  one  of  these  channels  near  the  Jesuit  convent 
must  be  fifty  feet  below  the  present  surface.  Only 
in  one  place  does  the  ancient  edifice  rise  near 
the  top  of  the  ground,  and  there  is  uncovered  the 
arched  front  of  what  was  once  a  family-box  at  the 
theatre,  with  the  owner's  name  graven  upon  the 
arch.  Many  poor  little  houses  have  of  course  been 
demolished  to  carry  on  the  excavations,  and  to  the 
walls  that  joined  them  cling  memorials  of  the  simple 
life  that  once  inhabited  them.  To  one  of  the  build- 
ings hung  a  melancholy  fire-place  left  blackened 
with  smoke,  and  battered  with  use,  but  witnessing 
that  it  had  once  been  the  heart  of  a  home.  It  was 
far  more  touching  than  any  thing  in  the  elder  ruin  ; 
and  I  think  nothing  could  have  so  vividly  expressed 
the  difference  which,  in  spite  of  all  the  resemblances 
noticeable  in  Italy,  exists  between  the  ancient  and 
modern  civilization,  as  that  family-box  at  the  theatre 
and  this  simple  fireside. 

I  do  not  now  remember  what  fortunate  chance  it 
was  that  discovered  to  us  the  house  of  the  Capu- 


306  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

lets,  and  I  incline  to  believe  that  we  gravitated  to- 
ward it  by  operation  of  well-known  natural  principles 
which  bring  travelers  acquainted  with  improbabili- 
ties wherever  they  go.  We  found  it  a  very  old  and 
time-worn  edifice,  built  round  an  ample  court,  and 
we  knew  it,  as  we  had  been  told  we  should,  by  the 
cap  carven  in  stone  above  the  interior  of  the  grand 
portal.  The  family,  anciently  one  of  the  principal 
of  Verona,  has  fallen  from  much  of  its  former  great- 
ness. On  the  occasion  of  our  visit,  Juliet,  very 
dowdily  dressed,  looked  down  from  the  top  of  a  long, 
dirty  staircase  which  descended  into  the  court,  and 
seemed  interested  to  see  us  ;  while  her  mother  ca- 
ressed with  one  hand  a  large  yellow  mastiff,  and 
distracted  it  from  its  first  impulse  to  fly  upon  us  poor 
children  of  sentiment.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
stable  litter,  and  many  empty  carts  standing  about 
in  the  court ;  and  if  I  might  hazard  the  opinion 
formed  upon  these  and  other  appearances,  I  should 
say  that  old  Capulet  has  now  gone  to  keeping  a  hotel, 
united  with  the  retail  liquor  business,  both  in  a  small 
way. 

Nothing  could  be  more  natural,  after  seeing  the 
house  of  the  Capulets,  than  a  wish  to  see  Juliet's 
Tomb,  which  is  visited  by  all  strangers,  and  is  the 
common  property  of  the  hand-books.  It  formerly 
stood  in  a  garden,  where,  up  to  the  beginning  of  this 
century,  it  served,  says  my  "  Viaggio  in  Italia," 
"  for  the  basest  uses,"  — just  as  the  sacred  prison  of 
Tasso  was  used  for  a  charcoal  bin.  We  found  the 
sarcophagus  under  a  shed  in  one  corner  of  the  gar- 


VICENZA,   VERONA,    AND   PARMA.  307 

den  of  the  Orfanotrofio  delle  Franceschine,  and  had 
to  confess  to  each  other  that  it  looked  like  a  horse- 
trough  roughly  hewn  out  of  stone.  The  garden,  said 
the  boy  in  charge  of  the  moving  monument,  had  been 
the  burial-place  of  the  Capulets,  and  this  tomb  being 
found  in  the  middle  of  the  garden,  was  easily  recog- 
nized as  that  of  Juliet.  Its  genuineness,  as  well  as 
its  employment  in  the  ruse  of  the  lovers,  was  proven 
beyond  cavil  by  a  slight  hollow  cut  for  the  head  to 
rest  in,  and  a  hole  at  the  foot  "  to  breathe  through," 
as  the  boy  said.  Does  not  the  fact  that  this  relic  has 
to  be  protected  from  the  depredations  of  travelers, 
who  could  otherwise  carry  it  away  piecemeal,  speak 
eloquently  of  a  large  amount  of  vulgar  and  rapacious 
innocence  drifting  about  the  world  ? 

It  is  well  to  see  even  such  idle  and  foolish  curiosi- 
ties, however,  in  a  city  like  Verona,  for  the  mere  go- 
ing to  and  fro  in  search  of  them  through  her  streets 
is  full  of  instruction  and  delight.  To  my  mind, 
no  city  has  a  fairer  place  than  she  that  sits  beside 
the  eager  Adige,  and  breathes  the  keen  air  of  moun- 
tains white  with  snows  in  winter,  green  and  purple 
with  vineyards  in  summer,  and  forever  rich  with  mar- 
ble. Around  Verona  stretch  those  gardened  plains 
of  Lombardy,  on  which  Nature,  who  dotes  on  Italy, 
and  seems  but  a  step-mother  to  all  transalpine  lands, 
has  lavished  every  gift  of  beauty  and  fertility. 
Within  the  city's  walls,  what  store  of  art  and  his- 
tory !  Her  market-places  have  been  the  scenes  of  a 
thousand  tragic  or  ridiculous  dramas ;  her  quaint 
and  narrow  streets  are  ballads  and  legends  full  of 


308  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

love-making  and  murder ;  the  empty,  grass-grown 
piazzas  before  her  churches  are  tales  that  are  told  of 
municipal  and  ecclesiastical  splendor.  Her  nobles 
sleep  in  marble  tombs  so  beautiful  that  the  dust  in 
them  ought  to  be  envied  by  living  men  in  Verona ; 
her  lords  lie  in  perpetual  state  in  the  heart  of  the 
city,  in  magnificent  sepulchres  of  such  grace  and  op- 
ulence, that,  unless  a  language  be  invented  full  of 
lance-headed  characters,  and  Gothic  vagaries  of  arch 
and  finial,  flower  and  fruit,  bird  and  beast,  they  can 
never  be  described*  Sacred  be  their  rest  from  pen 
of  mine,  Verona !  Nay,  while  I  would  fain  bring  the 
whole  city  before  my  reader's  fancy,  I  am  loath  and 
afraid  to  touch  any  thing  in  it  with  my  poor  art : 
either  the  tawny  river,  spanned  with  many  beautiful 
bridges,  and  murmurous  with  mills  afloat  and  turned 
by  the  rapid  current ;  or  the  thoroughfares  with 
their  passengers  and  bright  shops  and  caffes  ;  or  the 
grim  old  feudal  towers ;  or  the  age-embrowned  pal- 
aces, eloquent  in  their  haughty  strength  of  the  times 
when  they  were  family  fortresses ;  or  the  churches 
with  the  red  pillars  of  their  porticos  resting  upon  the 
backs  of  eagle-headed  lions ;  or  even  the  white-coated 
garrison  (now  there  no  more),  with  its  heavy-footed 
rank  and  file,  its  handsome  and  resplendent  officers, 
its  bristling  fortifications,  its  horses  and  artillery, 
crowding  the  piazzas  of  churches  turned  into  barracks. 
All  these  things  haunt  my  memory,  but  I  could  only 
at  best  thinly  sketch  them  in  meagre  black  and  white. 
Verona  is  an  almost  purely  Gothic  city  in  her  archi- 
tecture, and  her  churches  are  more  worthy  to  be 


VICENZA,    VERONA,    AND   PARMA.  309 

seen  than  any  others  in  North  Italy,  outside  of  Ven- 
ice. San  Zenone,  with  the  quaint  bronzes  on  its 
doors  representing  in  the  rudeness  of  the  first  period 
of  art  the  incidents  of  the  Old  Testament  and  the 
miracles  of  the  saints  —  with  the  allegorical  sculptures 
surrounding  the  interior  and  exterior  of  the  portico, 
and  illustrating,  among  other  things,  the  creation  of 
Eve  with  absolute  literalness  —  with  its  beautiful  and 
solemn  crypt  in  which  the  dust  of  the  titular  saint 
lies  entombed  —  with  its  minute  windows,  and  its 
vast  columns  sustaining  the  roof  upon  capitals  of 
every  bizarre  and  fantastic  device  —  is  doubtless  most 
abundant  in  that  Gothic  spirit,  now  grotesque  and 
now  earnest,  which  somewhere  appears  in  all  the 
churches  of  Verona ;  which  has  carven  upon  the  fa- 
§ade  of  the  Duomo  the  statues  of  Orlando  and  Ollivi- 
ero,  heroes  of  romance,  and  near  them  has  placed  the 
scandalous  figure  of  a  pig  in  a  monk's  robe  and  cowl, 
with  a  breviary  in  his  paw  ;  which  has  reared  the  ex- 
quisite monument  of  Guglielmo  da  Castelbarco  before 
the  church  of  St.  Anastasia,  and  has  produced  the 
tombs  of  the  Scaligeri  before  the  chapel  of  Santa 
Maria  Antica. 

I  have  already  pledged  myself  not  to  attempt  any 
description  of  these  tombs,  and  shall  not  fall  now. 
But  I  bought  in  the  English  tongue,  as  written  at 
Verona,  some  "  Notices,"  kept  for  sale  by  the  sacris- 
tan, "  of  the  Ancient  Churg  of  Our  Lady,  and  of  the 
Tombs  of  the  most  illustrious  Family  Della-Scala," 
and  from  these  I  think  it  no  dereliction  to  quote  ver- 
batim. First  is  the  tomb  of  Can  Francesco,  who  was 


310  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

"  surnamed  the  Great  by  reason  of  his  valor." 
44  With  him  the  Great  Alighieri  and  other  exiles  took 
refuge.  We  see  his  figure  extended  upon  a  bed, 
and  above  his  statue  on  horsebac  with  the  vizor 
down,  and  his  crest  falling  behind  his  shoulders,  his 
horse  covered  with  mail.  The  columns  and  capitals 
are  wonderful."  "  Within  the  Cemetery  to  the 
right  leaning  against  the  walls  of  the  church  is  the 
tomb  of  John  Scaliger."  "  In  the  side  of  this  tomb 
near  the  wall  of  Sacristy,  you  see  the  urn  that  en- 
closes the  ashes  of  Martin  I.,"  "  who  was  traitor- 
ously killed  on  the  17th  of  October  1277  by  Scara- 
mello  of  the  Scaramelli,  wrho  wished  to  revenge  the 
honor  of  a  young  lady  of  his  family."  "  The  Mau- 
soleum that  is  in  the  side  facing  the  Place  encloses 
the  Martin  II.'s  ashes.  .  .  .  This  building  is  sumpt- 
uous and  wonderful  because  it  stands  on  four  col- 
umns, each  of  which  has  an  architrave  of  nine  feet. 
On  the  beams  stands  a  very  large  square  of  marble 
that  forms  the  floor,  on  which  stands  the  urn  of  the 
Defunct.  Four  other  columns  support  the  vault 
that  covers  the  urn ;  and  the  rest  is  adorned  by  facts 
of  Old  Testament.  Upon  the  Summit  is  the  eques- 
trian statue  as  large  as  life."  Of  "  Can  Signo- 
rius,"  whose  tomb  is  the  most  splendid  of  all,  the 
"  Notices  "  say  :  "  He  spent  two  thousand  florins  of 
gold,  in  order  to  prepare  his  own  sepulchre  wrhile  he 
was  yet  alive,  and  to  surpass  the  magnificence  of  his 
predecessors.  The  monument  is  as  magnificent  as 
the  contracted  space  allows.  Six  columns  support 
the  floor  of  marble  on  which  it  stands  covered  with 


VICENZA,   VERONA,   AND  PARMA.  311 

figures.  Six  other  columns  support  the  top,  on  that 
is  the  Scaliger's  statues.  .  .  .  The  monument  is  sur- 
rounded by  an  enclosure  of  red  marble,  with  six  pil- 
lars, on  which  are  square  capitols  with  armed  Saints. 
The  rails  of  iron  with  the  Arms  of  the  Scala,  are 
worked  with  a  beauty  wonderful  for  that  age,"  or,  I 
may  add,  for  any  age.  These  "  rails  "  are  an  exqui- 
site net-work  of  iron  wrought  by  hand,  with  an  art 
emulous  of  that  of  Nicolo  Caparra  at  Florence.  The 
chief  device  employed  is  a  ladder  (scala)  constantly 
repeated  in  the  centres  of  quatre-foils ;  and  the 
whole  fabric  is  still  so  flexible  and  perfect,  after  the 
lapse  of  centuries,  that  the  net  may  be  shaken 
throughout  by  a  touch.  Four  other  tombs  of  the 
Scaligeri  are  here,  among  which  the  "  Notices  "  par- 
ticularly mention  that  of  Alboin  della  Scala :  "  He 
was  one  of  the  Ghibelline  party,  as  the  arms  on  his  urn 
schew,  that  is  a  staircase  risen  by  an  eagle  —  where- 
fore Dante  said,  In  sulla  /Scala  porta  il  santo 
Uccello." 

I  should  have  been  glad  to  meet  the  author  of 
these  delightful  histories,  but  in  his  absence  we 
fared  well  enough  with  the  sacristan.  When,  a  few 
hours  before  we  left  Verona,  we  came  for  a  last  look 
at  the  beautiful  sepulchres,  he  recognized  us,  and  see- 
ing a  sketch-book  in  the  party,  he  invited  us  within 
the  inclosure  again,  and  then  ran  and  fetched  chairs 
for  us  to  sit  upon  —  nay,  even  placed  chairs  for  us  to 
rest  our  feet  on.  Winning  and  exuberant  courtesy 
of  the  Italian  race !  If  I  had  never  acknowledged 
it  before,  I  must  do  homage  to  it  now,  remembering 


312  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

the  sweetness  of  the  sacristans  and  custodians  of 
Verona.  They  were  all  men  of  the  most  sympa- 
thetic natures.  He  at  San  Zenone  seemed  never  to 
have  met  with  real  friends  till  we  expressed  pleasure 
in  the  magnificent  Mantegna,  which  is  the  pride  of 
his  church.  "  What  coloring  I  "  he  cried,  and  then 
triumphantly  took  us  into  the  crypt :  "  What  a  mag- 
nificent crypt !  What  works  they  executed  in  those 
days,  there ! "  At  San  Giorgio  Maggiore,  where 
there  are  a  Tintoretto  and  a  Veronese,  and  four  hor- 
rible swindling  big  pictures  by  Romanino,  I  discov- 
ered to  my  great  dismay  that  I  had  in  my  pocket 
but  five  soldi,  which  I  offered  with  much  abasement 
and  many  apologies  to  the  sacristan  ;  but  he  received 
them  as  if  they  had  been  so  many  napoleons,  prayed 
me  not  to  speak  of  embarrassment,  and  declared  that 
his  labors  in  our  behalf  had  been  nothing  but  pleas- 
ure. At  Santa  Maria  in  Organo,  where  are  the 
wonderful  intagli  of  Fra  Giovanni  da  Verona,  the 
sacristan  fully  shared  our  sorrow  that  the  best  pict- 
ures could  not  be  unveiled  as  it  was  Holy  Week. 
He  was  also  moved  with  us  at  the  gradual  decay  of 
the  intagli,  and  led  us  to  believe  that,  to  a  man  of  so 
much  sensibility,  the  general  ruinous  state  of  the 
church  was  an  inexpressible  affliction ;  and  we  re- 
joiced for  his  sake  that  it  should  possess  at  least  one 
piece  of  art  in  perfect  repair.  This  was  a  modern 
work,  that  day  exposed  for  the  first  time,  and  it  rep- 
resented in  a  group  of  wooden  figures  The  Death  of 
St.  Joseph.  The  Virgin  and  Christ  supported  the 
dying  saint  on  either  hand ;  and  as  the  whole  was 


VICENZA,   VERONA,   AND   PARMA.  313 

vividly  colored,  and  rays  of  glory  in  pink  and  yellow 
gauze  descended  upon  Joseph's  head,  nothing  could 
have  been  more  impressive. 


in. 

PARMA  is  laid  out  with  a  regularity  which  may  be 
called  characteristic  of  the  great  ducal  cities  of  Italy, 
and  which  it  fully  shares  with  Mantua,  Ferrara,  and 
Bologna.  The  signorial  cities,  Verona,  Vicenza, 
Padua,  and  Treviso,  are  far  more  picturesque,  and 
Parma  excels  only  in  the  number  and  beauty  of  her 
fountains.  It  is  a  city  of  gloomy  aspect,  says  Valery, 
who  possibly  entered  it  in  a  pensive  frame  of  mind, 
for  its  sadness  did  not  impress  us.  We  had  just 
come  from  Modena,  where  the  badness  of  our  hotel 
enveloped  the  city  in  an  atmosphere  of  profound 
melancholy.  In  fact,  it  will  not  do  to  trust  to  trav- 
elers in  any  thing.  I,  for  example,  have  just  now 
spoken  of  the  many  beautiful  fountains  in  Parma  be- 
cause I  think  it  right  to  uphold  the  statement  of  M. 
Richard's  hand-book  ;  but  I  only  remember  seeing 
one  fountain,  passably  handsome,  there.  My  Lord 
Corke,  who  was  at  Parma  in  1754,  says  nothing  of 
fountains,  and  Richard  Lasells,  Gent.,  who  was 
there  a  century  earlier,  merely  speaks  of  the  foun- 
tains in  the  Duke's  gardens,  which,  together  with 
his  Grace's  "  wild  beasts"  and  "  exquisite  coaches," 
and  "  admirable  Theater  to  exhibit  Operas  in,"  "  the 
Domo,  whose  Cupola  was  painted  by  the  rare  hand 
of  Corregio,"  and  the  church  of  the  Capuchins,  where 


314  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

Alexander  Farnese  is  buried,  were  "  the  Chief  things 
to  be  seen  in  Parma  "  at  that  day. 

The  wild  beasts  have  long  ago  run  away  with  the 
exquisite  coaches,  but  the  other  wonders  named  by 
Master  Lasells  are  still  extant  in  Parma,  together 
with  some  things  he  does  not  name.  Our  minds,  in 
going  thither,  were  mainly  bent  upon  Correggio  and 
his  works,  and  while  our  dinner  was  cooking  at  the 
admirable  Albergo  della  Posta,  we  went  off  to  feast 
upon  the  perennial  Hash  of  Frogs  in  the  dome  of  the 
Cathedral.  This  is  one  of  the  finest  Gothic  churches 
in  Italy,  and  vividly  recalls  Verona,  while  it  has  a 
quite  unique  and  most  beautiful  feature  in  the  three 
light-columned  galleries,  that  traverse  the  facade  one 
above  another.  Close  at  hand  stands  the  ancient  Bap- 
tistery, hardly  less  peculiar  and  beautiful ;  but,  after 
all,  it  is  the  work  of  the  great  painter  which  gives 
the  temple  its  chief  right  to  wonder  and  reverence. 
We  found  the  fresco,  of  course,  much  wasted,  and 
at  first  glance,  before  the  innumerable  arms  and 
legs  had  time  to  order  and  attribute  themselves 
to  their  respective  bodies,  we  felt  the  justice  of  the 
undying  spite  which  called  this  divinest  of  frescos 
a  guazzetto  di  rane.  But  in  another  moment  it  ap- 
peared to  us  the  most  sublime  conception  of  the  As- 
sumption ever  painted,  and  we  did  not  find  Carac- 
ci's  praise  too  warm  where  he  says  :  "  And  I  still 
remain  stupefied  with  the  sight  of  so  grand  a  work 
—  every  thing  so  well  conceived  —  so  well  seen  from 
below  - —  with  so  much  severity,  yet  with  so  much 
judgment  and  so  much  grace  ;  with  a  coloring  which 


VICENZA,    VERONA,    AND   PARMA.  315 

is  of  very  flesh."  The  height  of  the  fresco  above 
the  floor  of  the  church  is  so  vast  that  it  might  well 
appear  like  a  heavenly  scene  to  the  reeling  sense 
of  the  spectator.  Brain,  nerve,  and  muscle  were 
strained  to  utter  exhaustion  in  a  very  few  minutes, 
and  we  came  away  with  our  admiration  only  half- 
satisfied,  and  resolved  to  ascend  the  cupola  next  day, 
and  see  the  fresco  on  something  like  equal  terms. 
In  one  sort  we  did  thus  approach  it,  and  as  we 
looked  at  the  gracious  floating  figures  of  the  heavenly 
company  through  the  apertures  of  the  dome,  they 
did  seem  to  adopt  us  and  make  us  part  of  the  paint- 
ing. But  the  tremendous  depth,  over  which  they 
drifted  so  lightly,  it  dizzied  us  to  look  into ;  and  I 
am  not  certain  that  I  should  counsel  travelers  to 
repeat  our  experience.  Where  still  perfect,  the 
fresco  can  only  gain  from  close  inspection,  —  it  is 
painted  with  such  exquisite  and  jealous  perfection,  — 
yet  the  whole  effect  is  now  better  from  below,  for 
the  decay  is  less  apparent ;  and  besides,  life  is  short, 
and  the  stairway  by  which  one  ascends  to  the  dome 
is  in  every  way  too  exigent.  It  is  with  the  most 
astounding  sense  of  contrast  that  you  pass  from  the 
Assumption  to  the  contemplation  of  that  other  famous 
roof  frescoed  by  Correggio,  in  the  Monastero  di  San 
Paolo.  You  might  almost  touch  the  ceiling  with  your 
hand,  it  hovers  so  low  with  its  counterfeit  of  vine- 
clambered  trellis-work,  and  its  pretty  boys  looking 
roguishly  through  the  embowering  leaves.  It  is  alto- 
gether the  loveliest  room  in  the  world  ;  and  if  the 
Diana  in  her  car  on  the  chimney  is  truly  a  portrait  of 


316  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

the  abbess  for  whom  the  chamber  was  decorated,  she 
was  altogether  worthy  of  it,  and  one  is  glad  to  think 
of  her  enjoying  life  in  the  fashion  amiably  permit- 
ted to  nuns  in  the  fifteenth  century.  What  curious 
scenes  the  gayety  of  this  little  chamber  conjures  up, 
and  what  a  vivid  comment  it  is  upon  the  age  and  peo- 
ple that  produced  it !  This  is  one  of  the  things  that 
makes  a  single  hour  of  travel  worth  whole  years  of 
historic  study,  and  which  casts  its  light  upon  all  fu- 
ture reading.  Here,  no  doubt,  the  sweet  little  ab- 
bess, with  the  noblest  and  prettiest  of  her  nuns 
about  her,  received  the  polite  world,  and  made  a 
cheerful  thing  of  devotion,  while  all  over  trans- 
alpine Europe  the  sour-hearted  Reformers  were  de- 
stroying pleasant  monasteries  like  this.  The  light- 
hearted  lady-nuns  and  their  gentlemen  friends  looked 
on  heresy  as  a  deadly  sin,  and  they  had  little  reason 
to  regard  it  with  favor.  It  certainly  made  life  harder 
for  them  in  time,  for  it  made  reform  within  the 
Church  as  well  as  without,  so  that  at  last  the  lovely 
Chamber  of  St.  Paul  was  closed  against  the  public 
for  more  than  two  centuries. 

All  Parma  is  full  of  Correggio,  as  Venice  is  of 
Titian  and  Tintoretto,  as  Naples  of  Spagnoletto,  as 
Mantua  of  Giulio  Romano,  as  Vicenza  of  Palladio, 
as  Bassano  of  Da  Ponte,  as  Bologna  of  Guido  Reni. 
I  have  elsewhere  noticed  how  ineffaceably  and  exclu- 
sively the  manner  of  the  masters  seems  to  have 
stamped  itself  upon  the  art  of  the  cities  where  they 
severally  wrought,  —  how  at  Parma  Correggio  yet 
lives  in  all  the  sketchy  mouths  of  all  the  pictures 


VICENZA,    VERONA,   AND   PARMA.  317 

painted  there  since  his  time.  One  might  almost  be- 
lieve, hearing  the  Parmesans  talk,  that  his  manner 
had  infected  their  dialect,  and  that  they  fashioned 
their  lazy,  incomplete  utterance  with  the  careless 
lips  of  his  nymphs  and  angels.  They  almost  en- 
tirely suppress  the  last  syllable  of  every  word,  and 
not  with  a  quick  precision,  as  people  do  in  Venice 
or  Milan,  but  with  an  ineffable  languor,  as  if  lan- 
guage were  not  worth  the  effort  of  enunciation  ; 
while  they  rise  and  lapse  several  times  in  each  sen- 
tence, and  sink  so  sweetly  and  sadly  away  upon  the 
closing  vocable  that  the  listener  can  scarcely  repress 
his  tears.  In  this  melancholy  rhythm,  one  of  the  citi- 
zens recounted  to  me  the  whole  story  of  the  assassin- 
ation of  the  last  Duke  of  Parma  in  1850  ;  and  left 
me  as  softly  moved  as  if  I  had  been  listening  to  a 
tale  of  hapless  love.  Yet  it  was  an  ugly  story,  and 
after  the  enchantment  of  the  recital  passed  away,  I 
perceived  that  when  the  Duke  was  killed  justice  was 
done  on  one  of  the  maddest  and  wickedest  tyrants 
that  ever  harassed  an  unhappy  city. 

The  Parmesans  remember  Maria  Louisa,  Napo- 
leon's wife,  with  pleasant  enough  feelings,  and  she 
seems  to  have  been  good  to  them  after  the  manner 
of  sovereigns,  enriching  their  city  with  art,  and  beau- 
tifying it  in  many  ways,  besides  doing  works  of  pri- 
vate charity  and  beneficence.  Her  daughter  by  a 
second  marriage,  the  Countess  Sanvitali,  still  lives  in 
Parma ;  and  in  one  of  the  halls  of  the  Academy  of 
Fine  Arts  the  Duchess  herself  survives  in  the  marble 
of  Canova.  It  was  she  who  caused  the  two  great 


318  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS. 

pictures  of  Correggio,  the  St.  Jerome  and  the  Ma- 
donna della  Scodella,  to  be  placed  alone  in  separate 
apartments  hung  with  silk,  in  which  the  painter's 
initial  A  is  endlessly  interwoven.  "  The  Night,"  to 
which  the  St.  Jerome  is  "  The  Day,"  is  in  the  gal- 
lery at  Dresden,  but  Parma  could  have  kept  nothing 
more  representative  of  her  great  painter's  power 
than  this  "  Day."  It  is  "  the  bridal  of  the  earth  and 
sky,"  and  all  sweetness,  brightness,  and  tender 
shadow  are  in  it.  Many  other  excellent  works  of 
Correggio,  Caracci,  Parmigianino,  and  masters  of 
different  schools  are  in  this  gallery,  but  it  is  the  good 
fortune  of  travelers,  who  have  to  see  so  much,  that 
the  memory  of  the  very  best  alone  distinctly  remains. 
Nay,  in  the  presence  of  prime  beauty  nothing  else 
exists,  and  we  found  that  the  church  of  the  Steccata, 
where  Parmigianino's  sublime  "  Moses  breaking  the 
Tables  of  the  Law  "  is  visible  in  the  midst  of  a  mul- 
titude of  other  figures  on  the  vault,  really  contained 
nothing  at  last  but  that  august  and  awful  presence. 

Undoubtedly  the  best  gallery  of  classical  antiquities 
in  North  Italy  is  that  of  Parma,  which  has  derived 
all  its  precious  relics  from  the  little  city  of  Valleja 
alone.  It  is  a  fine  foretaste  of  Pompeii  and  the 
wonders  of  the  Museo  Borbonico  at  Naples,  with  its 
antique  frescos,  and  marble,  and  bronzes^  I  think 
nothing  better  has  come  out  of  Herculaneum  than 
the  comic  statuette  of  "  Hercules  Drunk."  He  is 
in  bronze,  and  the  drunkest  man  who  has  descended 
to  us  from  the  elder  world;  he  reels  backward, 
and  leers  knowingly  upon  you,  while  one  hand 


VICENZA,   VERONA,   AND   PARMA.  319 

hangs  stiffly  at  his  side,  and  the  other  faintly  clasps  a 
wine-cup  —  a  burly,  worthless,  disgraceful  demigod. 
The  great  Farnese  Theatre  was,  as  we  have  seen, 
admired  by  Lasells ;  but  Lord  Corke  found  it  a 
"  useless  structure  "  though  immense.  "  The  same 
spirit  that  raised  the  Colossus  at  Rhodes,"  he  says, 
"  raised  the  theatre  at  Parma  ;  that  insatiable  spirit 
and  lust  of  Fame  which  would  brave  the  Almighty 
by  fixing  eternity  to  the  name  of  a  perishable  being." 
If  it  was  indeed  this  spirit,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  it 
did  not  build  so  wisely  at  Parma  as  at  Rhodes.  The 
play-house  that  Ranuzio  I.  constructed  in  1628,  to 
do  honor  to  Cosmo  II.  de'  Medici  (pausing  at  Parma 
on  his  way  to  visit  the  tomb  of  San  Carlo  Borromeo), 
and  that  for  a  century  afterward  was  the  scene  of  the 
most  brilliant  spectacles  in  the  world,  is  now  one  of 
the  dismalest  and  dustiest  of  ruins.  This  Theatrum 
orbis  miraculum  was  built  and  ornamented  with  the 
most  perishable  materials,  and  even  its  size  has 
shrunken  as  the  imaginations  of  men  have  contracted 
under  the  strong  light  of  later  days.  When  it  was 
first  opened,  it  was  believed  to  hold  fourteen  thousand 
spectators  ;  at  a  later  fete  it  held  only  ten  thousand  ; 
the  last  published  description  fixes  its  capacity  at  five 
thousand  ;  and  it  is  certain  that  for  many  and  many 
a  year  it  has  held  only  the  stray  tourists  who  have 
looked  in  upon  its  desolation.  The  gay  paintings 
hang  in  shreds  and  tatters  from  the  roof;  dust  is 
thick  upon  the  seats  and  in  the  boxes,  and  on  the 
leads  that  line  the  space  once  flooded  for  naval 
games.  The  poor  plaster  statues  stand  naked  and 


320  ITALIAN   JOURNEYS. 

forlorn  amid  the  ruin  of  which  they  are  part ;  and 
the  great  stage,  from  which  the  curtain  has  rotted 
away,  yawns  dark  and  empty  before  the  empty  au- 
ditorium. 


THE   END 


